Exonerated
by thecouchcarrot
Summary: AU Dean/Cas. Years ago, Dean Winchester was the detective who put serial killer Castiel Goodwin behind bars. Last spring, Cas was proven innocent and his conviction overturned. Neither could've predicted the way their lives would intertwine... Ch. 26: "No." Cas grabs either side of his pillow and presses it tightly around his head, muffling his ears. "Je refuse."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Wow. It's been a long time._

_It's been difficult staying away for this long. I've missed you all, my verdant vegetables, and I've missed this universe. But between my thrilling part-time job at Macy's and the rigors of law school, I've been far too busy to crank out fanfiction. I've been working on this bit for quite some time, using my moments of spare time here and there to work on it, and originally I was going to save it until it was finished to publish it, piece by piece._

_BUT THEN, last week's episode aired. And LET ME TELL YOU, some IMPLICIT THEMES I was planning on EXPLORING suddenly became EXPLICIT THEMES and I figured I should strike while the iron is hot. Therefore, I give you this fic. It's... different._

_It takes place in the real world, our world, where most monsters are people - some evil, and some just human. Everything else you need to know is in the story. It's Dean/Cas, of course, but it's not a typical romance. I urge you to give it a shot, and please please please review. I'm hoping to keep the story fairly short, but I probably won't be able to update for some time - probably not until at least next weekend. :( I know you guys are used to a much speedier schedule, and I apologize._

_Thank you, dear readers, for taking a look, and I hope to see you in the reviews. Enjoy._

* * *

Dean's sitting at a table in front of a coffee shop, a little coffee shop on the corner of 12th and University Way. It's called Flowers. He's sitting at a little brown metal table under a blue and white striped canvas umbrella and there's a slight breeze tugging along his right cheek, the rush of the street, the wind of the cars going by and zipping through the spring air.

It's kind of a long story how he got here.

…

Seven years ago, about fifty miles outside of this city, there was a string of child disappearances. Those are the words no one ever wants to hear: a _string_ of _disappearing children_.

Dean Winchester took the helm of the county's investigative task force. It was only natural. He was the sheriff's lead detective. It was early summertime, a hot melted sticky summer, and at least four kids under age seven had vanished from the farthest corners of the county – vanished from swingsets, from sidewalks, from schoolyards, popsicles in hand and sweat-plastered hair. Parents were warned, alerts were made, but it was too hot. The children would not stay indoors.

Then two small bodies were discovered in the woods by Lake Madeleine. There was no evidence of sexual assault, but the children were… dismembered. Disemboweled.

Dissected.

The parents locked their doors.

Two more children disappeared, three more bodies were found, all under seven years old and all missing their eyes, their fingers, their teeth. Ribs cracked open. The heat wave boiled over into hysteria, and Dean's phone rang and rang with shrieks and demands. Night after night he patrolled Lake Madeleine, unable to sleep, shadows under his eyes, a little girl's empty eye sockets burned into the back of his brain.

Then the big break came:

A body was found in a house.

Castiel Goodwin's lakehouse, to be specific. On Lake Madeleine. His neighbor Mrs. Manesciewicz thought she heard a noise in the night and noticed that his lights were on, even though he had not yet taken his annual vacation time to stay at the lakehouse. His car also was not in the driveway. Fearing a burglar but feeling uncertain, Mrs. Manesciewicz got into her car and honked the horn. The lights in the house suddenly turned out. She called the police.

When the police arrived, they knocked and shone a flashlight in the window… and saw a tiny, limp hand on the floor.

Three hours later, Dean and his partner were dragging Castiel Goodwin out of his townhouse as the man shouted to his wife, struggling against his handcuffs. And when they slammed the car door shut on him, Dean felt a cold shiver jab up his spine and a big, long breath let out of his lungs.

The trial was fast and damning, a blur of paperwork and camera flashes and cold glares. There was no sign of forced entry, the doors were locked, and CSI showed that the little boy had been killed in the bathtub. Traces of several of the other children were found in the crevices of the bathroom. Mr. Goodwin had no alibi for the nights in question except his weeping naïve wife, who said she thought he had been home but she couldn't be sure. He sometimes went out for nightly drives. His neighbors all said he was quiet and polite. He appeared shrunken inside his orange jumpsuit, with black-brown cropped hair and wide blue eyes that showed the fear that silently trembled in his hands.

He looked so fucking ordinary.

Castiel Goodwin was sentenced to six consecutive life sentences. He didn't cry. He didn't even seem to hear. He just walked dumbly out of the courtroom, stumbling in his chains.

And that concluded the horrific nightmare of the Lake Madeleine Killer, all the demons put to rest, and Dean still couldn't sleep at night but everyone else slept just fine so, small fucking favors, alright? He was elected sheriff shortly thereafter and at least that gave him new purpose. Happily ever after. That was the end.

Until five years later, when a three-year-old boy went missing.

This time, the killer had not been so careful. The job was not as clean as the other six, something that a psychologist would later testify was a sign of his compulsion to kill, the ravening compulsion he couldn't control any longer. Where the others had been spotlessly devoid of DNA evidence, this little boy had not been cleaned so thoroughly. The medical examiner found residue of saliva on his wrist. The residue was collected and sent to a high-profile lab for testing, and the results matched someone already in their database –

Lucas Goodwin. Castiel Goodwin's brother.

The litigation that followed was much, much longer than the first trial. Lucas confessed to the little boy's murder, and Castiel's appeal began in earnest. Experts testified how little Kenny's killer was almost certainly the same killer as the previous six, how none of Castiel's DNA was ever found in connection with the bodies, how Lucas had a spare key to the lakehouse. They testified how the county had been looking for an easy answer, how poorly Castiel's attorneys had defended him, and most importantly – how Lucas now admitted he had killed the other children.

Castiel was exonerated, and every possible ounce of shame in Dean's body collected in his feet and made him want to sink into the ground and never come up. Dean got the news and went home and drank until he blacked out.

So now a week later he's sitting at a café called Flowers, and he's waiting for Castiel Goodwin to show up.

….

"I just don't understand what he wants from me," Dean said to his brother Sam over the phone earlier that day. "If I were him, I'd be the last fucking person I'd wanna see."

"Maybe he just wants you to say you're sorry," Sam suggested.

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Because that'll make it all better. More likely, he's planning to shank me with his prison shiv, and I can't say I blame him."

"You need to stop beating yourself up, Dean. You weren't the only one who made a mistake –"

"No, I'm _the_ one who made _the_ mistake," Dean snapped. "I made the call to arrest him. I sat there on the stand and I swore to that jury that he was the only possible one who could've done it."

"Look. I'm just saying… it happens."

Dean rubbed his eyes. "Maybe that's true, Sam. Maybe it happens. But it shouldn't happen, not on my watch. And what's more…" He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "Sam, Kenny Whidbey would still be alive."

"You don't know that!"

"If I had caught the right guy, he would be. That kid would be in kindergarten now…"

…

So he's sitting at Flowers and waiting for Goodwin to arrive, and his coffee's getting cold but he just can't bring himself to drink it. He lowers his eyes to his cup and he secretly hopes that maybe he's forgotten, maybe he won't show u–

"Hello."

Dean starts.

The man's voice is unnervingly low, lower than Dean remembered. He looks very different from how he looked before – calm, collected, eyes steady and unrelenting. He walks different, too. He walks taller, somehow, straight and measured, not the haggard pale man in the baggy jumpsuit. He pulls out the chair across from Dean.

"Hey," Dean says, just like that.

Castiel sits down and looks at Dean.

Sweat trickles down the small of Dean's back. "So," he says, and he clears his throat. "You wanted to see me?"

Castiel doesn't even blink. "I heard about your resignation."

Ah. Dean looks back to his coffee and gives a nervous half-chuckle. "Yup, I… I sure did resign."

"Why?"

Dean's fingers tighten on the cup. He pauses for a moment. "Oh, a lot of reasons." He closes his eyes. "Most of 'em to do with you."

They sit in silence for a minute, the cars whipping by in the busy street.

Dean takes a deep breath. "Survey says, this is the part where I say I'm sorry."

Castiel waits.

Dean blurts out, "But I don't think that's right."

Castiel's eyebrows tighten, and he tilts his head.

"Look, I can make my apologies, and you can take them or leave them," he goes on, rubbing the back of his neck. "And we can both toss around some pseudo-psychological bullshit words like, like 'closure' and 'acceptance' and all that crap, but when it comes down to it, the only person my apology helps is me. Is it gonna make you feel better? No. Is it gonna bring back the last six years of your life? Hell no." He snorts and clenches his hand into a ball. "All it's gonna do is take me off the hook for actually _doing_ anything to fix the shit I did. So you if you want me to say I'm sorry I'll tell you I'm sorry, but I'm gonna _be_ sorry either way and I'm gonna be sorry the rest of my life. Telling you doesn't change that."

And Dean takes another deep breath and waits for the inevitable verbal smackdown, and Castiel…

smiles.

Dean blinks.

It's a small, quiet smile, but it's definitely a smile.

"You certainly have an interesting philosophy," Castiel says. "But I'm not looking for an apology."

Dean squints. "What?" he says. "Why not?"

Castiel exhales heavily. "For many of the reasons you said. Because of the impotence of intentions. Because I have already received so many apologies from so many people."

Dean sets down his coffee. "Then why did you ask me here?"

Castiel looks at him for a long moment, concentrated and sharp. Finally, he says, "When I heard you resigned, I knew what I had to do." His chair scrapes against the asphalt as he stands up. "Would you drive me down to the lake?"

….

It's been a long time since Dean set foot near Lake Madeleine.

The two of them sit at the public access, little more than a gravel beach with a bench, and they look out at the gray water and the few brown ducks paddling in the shallows.

"Daphne put the lakehouse up for sale," Castiel comments. "No one will buy it."

"Understandable," Dean says.

"She's living in Michigan now," Castiel adds. "With her family."

Dean swallows thickly. He knows about Castiel's side of the family. He knows far too much about what Castiel's life looked like six years ago.

The two of them sit and watch the flat, cold lake.

"Did you know?" Dean asks abruptly.

Castiel turns his head to him, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Your brother," Dean elaborates. "Did you know it was him?"

Castiel's face darkens, and he turns away from Dean. "You think I would protect a child killer," he mutters.

"No," Dean hastily blurts, "I didn't mean that, I just wondered – if part of you knew."

Castiel lowers his head, and his shoulders sag. "No," he admits. "I had no inkling. I often wonder if… I was truly that blind, or…"

The silent lake watches back.

Dean gets it. He really does. Because it's the exact same scenario he plays over and over in his head, when he thinks about the interviews he conducted with Lucas, all the times he met him, shook his hand, cracked a joke. Not once did his cop instincts throw up a red flag. Not once, in all the time that he spent building the case against Castiel, did he ever suspect the real killer was the loyal brother who couldn't vouch for Cas's whereabouts but who was sure there had been some mistake.

"I was naïve, back then," Castiel says quietly. "I didn't hire an expensive attorney or try to throw suspicion on anyone else. I was certain that, since I was innocent, I wouldn't be convicted. I thought the truth would win out."

"Me too," Dean croaks. "I thought that too."

Castiel turns his head to peer at him.

"I know you probably don't believe me, but – I thought I was doing the right thing," he insists hoarsely. "You were so quiet, and I thought if you were innocent you'd – I don't know, there'd be some evidence. Some tell. When I arrested you that night and I locked the cuffs around your wrist I just had this feeling in the pit of my stomach, this feeling that I'd… I'd…" He trails off.

"… won," Castiel finishes for him.

Dean can't meet his eyes.

"It was a puzzle to you. A game. I don't mean that disrespectfully."

A sarcastic laugh chokes out of Dean. "How else could you mean it?"

"It was a game with incredibly high stakes, and I believe that you understood the stakes intimately." Castiel's eyes are large, his expression even. "I know you didn't take your responsibility lightly. But when you solve the puzzle, you don't keep looking for other solutions. You won the game… and your job was done."

Something deep in Dean's chest sinks with the truth of his words. He rubs the corner of his jaw.

"I mean that wholly," Castiel continues. "Your job ended there."

Dean flicks his eyes up to him.

"After that, I was tried and convicted by other people," Castiel says. "And yet you seem to think you bear the burden of responsibility."

"Because I do," Dean counters. "Because they all relied on me."

Castiel cocks his head. "So you, out of all parties involved, had the greatest hand in my fate?"

It sounds so damning to hear it out loud.

Dean presses his mouth tight and nods. "That's about the shape of it."

The quiet on the lake is eerie. It seems to linger in the air, cling to the skin.

"That's the shape of it," Dean murmurs, the sickening metallic tang of guilt on the roof of his mouth. "You spent six years in prison because of me, and nothing I can say can ever make it up to you." He turns his head and looks Cas straight in the eye. "I'm sorry, Castiel," he says, sincerely and hollowly. "It sounds so fucking empty, but. I'm sorry."

And Castiel reaches across the bench

and put his left hand over Dean's right.

Dean stares at the hand pressed down on his own, the long pale fingers.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel says, "I forgive you."

Dean's breath stops short in his throat.

"I know I'm not the only one you seek forgiveness from, but, for what it's worth…" Castiel squeezes his hand. "You have mine."

"I – I – I don't understand," Dean stammers, hot dampness springing in his eyes, roughening his voice.

"I don't want to forgive you, Dean." Castiel's eyes pierce through him. "But I need to. I refuse to carry the burden of hatred for the rest of my life. This is something I am doing for myself, so that I can find peace. I forgive you, and I wish you luck in your future endeavors."

"Jesus," Dean breathes. He pulls back his hand. "Jesus fucking Christ." He stands up.

Castiel's eyes follow his hand and travel up Dean's face.

Dean strides away from him briskly. "Fuck." He stops a yard away and pinches his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. "Fucking Christ."

They're a picture on the shore of Lake Madeleine, two characters frozen in tableau: one sitting on a bench, smooth and implacable, the other turned away, agitated and sharp.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean barks, spinning on Castiel. "How the hell are you so fucking _zen_? You on some kinda drugs?"

A slight shadow passes behind Castiel's eyes. "I've been in solitary confinement for six and a half years," he says. "For my own protection. I've had a lot of time for self-improvement."

"Fuck!" Dean swears again.

"Somehow, I thought you'd be more pleased," Castiel comments dryly.

"Pleased?" Dean asks incredulously. "Pleased? I'd be _pleased_ if you served me with papers. I'd be _pleased_ if you cussed me out. It's the absolute least I deserve. Hell, why don't you even – just take a swing at me!" He throws his arms wide open. "I owe you that much! Just punch me in the face! I won't even swing back."

"That's not how I choose to spend my time." Castiel turns his eyes out toward the lake. "Now that I'm a free man, I understand how precious time is. I won't waste it on violence."

"Then what do you want?" Dean asks. "What do you need? C'mon, name it. New clothes, money, booze, women, letters of recommendation from the mayor. Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you."

"I don't need money," Castiel informs him. "I was given a hefty settlement by the state."

"There's gotta be something," Dean says.

Castiel's eyes sharpen on the cottage across the lake. "Well. I do have an idea."

"What is it?" Dean asks eagerly. "Punching is still on the table."

"First," Castiel says, a small grim smile twisting at his mouth, "I want to burn down the lakehouse."

…..

"You're gonna _what?_"

"Look, Barry, at least seven children were murdered in that house," Dean reasons over the phone. "Probably more. Absolutely no one is going to live there. And any developers that want the property are gonna have to tear it down anyway…"

"But Jesus, Dean, there are proper _routes_ and – "

"It's going up in flames _today_, Barry," Dean cuts in, sloshing gasoline with one hand and holding his cell phone in the other. "I'm just giving you a heads up so the neighbors don't suffer collateral damage. You're the fire chief, you figure out how best to mitigate the situation."

"And you're the sheriff!"

"Former sheriff," Dean corrects. "And it's not like they can fire me."

"Hold up for one goddamn minute. Forget firing – you realize you're confessing to arson, right now, on the phone?"

"Yeah," Dean retorts. "And what fucking jury is gonna convict us?"

Barry groans deeply into the phone.

"I'm not asking any favors, Barry," Dean says. "I'm just telling you to get your boys down here in about ten minutes. And I'm just telling you that it's in your best interests to let it all burn to cinders and walk away, because absolutely no one is going to feel sad that a couple of yahoos burnt down the Goodwin murderhouse."

Then he hangs up and pockets the phone, and continues pouring gasoline.

He and Castiel meet around the front, having emptied about a dozen gallons of accelerant on the exterior of the house.

Castiel pulls out the Zippo lighter and lights a rag stuffed into a bottle full of the stuff.

"So," Dean comments, "we may be arrested in a few hours. It's hard to tell at this point."

They walk back a few yards, and Castiel hurls the flaming bottle at the front door.

With an amazing _whoosh_ sound and a surprisingly searing burst of heat, the house goes up. Twilight is just starting to beckon over the hills, and the burning house shines bright and alive in the early dusk.

"Then, I suppose…" Castiel wipes off his hands on his jacket. "We should get started quickly on the next item on my list."

"You have a list?" Dean asks, impressed.

Castiel nods.

"And what's item number two?"

Castiel smiles. "Sex."

….

"That was weird," Dean groans, shading his hungover eyes from the morning light.

Castiel groans in response from the bathroom.

"We shoulda got separate rooms," Dean adds. "I don't remember why we just got one room…"

Vomiting noises emanate from the bathroom.

Dean squints at the rumpled bedsheets, the clothing scattered on the floor. "Did we have a foursome? Jesus, tell me we didn't have a foursome…"

The toilet flushes.

Dean throws off the covers and crouches onto the floor, rummaging through his clothes. "Shit, shit, shit. A hooker stole my wallet! One of the hookers stole my wallet! I bet it was that shitshow _Candide_, what kind of fucking hooker is named _Ca_– oh wait, nevermind. Found it."

Castiel stumbles out of the bathroom, buck naked. "Candy," he mutters. "Her name was Candy. Candide is a Voltaire novella…"

Dean blinks. "Oh. That makes a hell of a lot more sense." He rubs his eyes and realizes he's also nude. "What was yours called again?"

"Shakira," Castiel replies. "But you kept calling her Fergie."

Dean's head throbs hotly and his mouth is as dry like cotton. "You have a good night?"

"No," Castiel says quietly, sitting down on the bed. "Not really."

Shit.

Dean gets up from where he was rummaging and sits next to Castiel. "Look, we jumped into this too fast," he says. "Hookers were… probably a little much."

Castiel nods. His face is a closed door.

"You wanna, uh…" Dean clears his throat. "You wanna talk about anything?"

"I miss her," Castiel murmurs. "I miss Daphne."

Dean isn't sure what to say.

"She tried… to reach out, when the news came out…" Castiel looks down at his bare feet. "And we spoke for a long time, and I feel it was a healing experience. But she – she believed them, what they said about me, when I was convicted, and… that's not something you can come back from."

Dean nods slowly.

Hookers were a really fucking bad idea.

Strangely, though, he now feels an odd sense of connectedness to the man sitting beside him, feelings other than guilt and shame. In their sorry state, they are somehow alike, somehow tied into this world together. A weird bond of nakedness and morning breath and headaches and clothing stinking of gasoline has been forged between them.

"Let me get you a coffee," Dean says, patting his knee. "We'll go to Denny's."

"I'd like to shower first," Castiel says.

"Well. That goes without saying. You smell like Fergie."

….


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:_ So, first order of business - thank you, thank you, thank you for all the reviews! I appreciate each and every one of them. They are precious to me, like a precious precious gemstone wrapped in diamonds and covered in gold dust. Second order of business - sorry, but it looks like once a week is the fastest I'm going to be able to make these updates. Sorry for my complete lack of speediness. And finally, third order of business - everyone who reviews this week gets a prize. A fantastic, exclusive, EXTREMELY RARE prize of..._

_ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY GAZILLION IMAGINARY BABY KITTENS!1!_

_Update: So it turns out, that's a lot of kittens. Apparently no one wants that many kittens, even if they are completely imaginary and therefore have very easy upkeep. Prize has been revised to two (2) imaginary kittens and a basket of hard cheeses._

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

"You're _where_?"

"I'm at Denny's with Castiel," Dean tells Sam over the phone, hunched over in the corner by a potted plant. "Turns out, he's kind of like… Gandhi. Or, if Gandhi had a weird lovechild with Keanu Reeves."

"Dean. Are you drunk?"

"It's entirely possible," Dean admits. "But I'm pretty sure I'm hungover and everything is just kinda fucking surreal right now. Guess why he wanted to meet with me, Sam."

"Why?"

"He wanted to _forgive me_. He heard I resigned and he decided he wanted to forgive me."

"… Wow."

"Yeah, 'wow.' So anyway, we burnt down his lakehouse and rented a couple hookers –"

"WHAT?!"

"- and now we're at Denny's getting breakfast. I gotta admit, I'm curious as to what's coming next."

"DEAN!"

"Gotta go, Sammy! Catch you later!"

"DEAN! DON'T YOU DARE –"

Dean hangs up.

…..

Dean eats across the booth from Castiel, watching the man pick at his scrambled eggs. Shafts of late morning light shine in golden slats through the restaurant's blinds and illuminate the dust motes drifting in the air, lazy and aimless. The booth smells of warm plastic and thin coffee, but it's not a bad smell. Background chatter of clattering plates and hissing water echoes from the kitchen, but the rest of the restaurant is empty and quiet.

Finally Castiel speaks. "You know… it wasn't as bad as it could've been."

"Last night?" Dean asks, as he saws at his pancakes and stabs the chunks onto his fork. "I'll have to take your word for it, since I honestly don't remember anything after midnight…"

"I meant prison," Castiel quietly corrects.

Dean freezes mid-bite. The pit of his stomach tightens.

"I was in isolation," Castiel continues. "I was fortunate in that respect."

"Yeah, you were kind of infamous," Dean says, chewing his bite, the buttery flavor sticking to the back of his teeth and souring. "You're lucky you weren't killed by the other inmates."

Castiel sets down his fork. "I was beaten by the guards. Often."

Dean's chewing slows.

"Sometimes they would… laugh."

Jesus.

A perky waitress stops by the table with a plastered smile. "Can I get you boys anything else?"

"Just the check," Dean says. He wipes off his face with his napkin.

Castiel pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. It's a nice jacket, Dean notices, dark navy suede and fitted, and for the first time he recognizes it as the jacket Castiel wore on the courthouse steps the day his conviction was overturned.

"I wrote down my list," Castiel tells him. "While you showered." He begins to unfold it on the table.

"Hey," Dean says, trapping the list under his hand. "Wait. Before we go any further."

Castiel looks at him coolly.

"Have you thought about – about talking to somebody?" Dean stammers. "Somebody professional?"

"A therapist, you mean." Castiel's eyes are boring into him, refusing to waver. "A psychiatrist."

"Among other options. But yeah."

Castiel shrugs and lifts his mug. "I already am. I've been through extensive counseling already." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Why else do you think I haven't punched you yet?"

"I thought it was my effervescent charm," Dean quips. "Plus, you wouldn't want to mess up this pretty face."

Castiel looks him in the eye. "Your face is extremely punchable, Dean. It takes great amounts of self control to resist."

Dean pulls out his credit card. "My offer still stands, you know. If you wanna go out in the parking lot and take your pound of flesh…"

A smile tugs at Castiel's lips.

"What?" Dean asks.

He doesn't say anything. He just unfolds his list and flattens it out on the table.

"What's next?" Dean asks.

…

They walk along the sunny avenue and eat their ice cream.

"You know," Dean says, "you didn't have to bring me along for this."

Castiel digs his spoon into his cup of orange sherbet. "I wanted the company."

"Yeah, but. I'm like the closest thing you have to an arch enemy." Dean slurps the melting edge of his waffle cone full of Rocky Road. "Or, I would be, if you weren't the Martin Luther King of the wrongfully imprisoned."

"Finish your ice cream," Castiel says. "We have a lot of driving to do."

…..

Dean grips the plastic-wrapped bouquet of flowers tightly in his sweaty hands. The last one.

Castiel consults his map. "I think… farther down the hill…"

They wander down the lush green hillside, the thick grass trimmed short and pristine. It's the finest lawn in Hanneville. The bronze and marble plaques lie in neat, organized rows, glinting in the sunlight. They finally come to the one they're looking for, and Dean thinks – it's strange, how it looks the same as all the rest. You'd think it'd be smaller, or set apart somehow, but the only thing that distinguishes this headstone from all the others is the briefness of the date engraved into it: April 2, 2007 – July 7, 2010.

"Kenny Whidbey," Cas says, his voice and face heavy. "The last victim."

Dean lays the flowers gently on her grave, and his fingers and lips feel numb.

Castiel bows his head, and stands silently at his headstone.

After the indeterminate moment of silence passes, the two walk away wordlessly, heading back they way they came through the cemetary. It's not until they near a bench under a maple tree that Dean notices the way Castiel's hunching, and as they sit down Castiel slumps against the wooden slats and closes his eyes.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

"No," Castiel murmurs.

Dean hesitates, and then puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Anything I can do?"

Cas turns his face away from Dean's hand, but doesn't shrug him off.

Jenny. Olivia. Jake.

Elizabeth. Ben. Jesse… and Kenny.

Dean presses his mouth tight and squints at the sun.

"How many more do you think there were?" Castiel asks. "How many others who were never found?"

"I don't know," Dean answers. He can still see it – the gaping, mangled gums, the red dark holes where eyes should be, the split jagged white bone and the pale, blue skin. "I think about that a lot. We dragged the lake, but… it's impossible to know…"

Castiel's face is gray. "My own brother."

The sun shining in the sky feels colder now, and the day a little more dim.

"Where do we go now?" Dean asks.

Castiel stands up, and Dean's hand slides off his shoulder. "Somewhere I'd rather not go."

…..

Castiel doesn't like gray walls. He doesn't like this building, and he doesn't like the employees. Most of all, he doesn't like to be locked in.

Unfortunately, it was a condition of his visitation.

Lucas slouches in the chair across the aluminum table, languid and unconcerned. The orange jumpsuit and chains hang off him like natural accessories. He stares at Castiel with complete indifference, his eyes fixed on him like a cat's eyes instinctively fix on a moving object. His face is empty and devoid of feeling.

This man is not his brother. This man is a stranger.

"I visited their graves," Castiel says. "The children you murdered. I went to pay my respects."

Lucas's right eyebrow lifts. "Sooo," he says slowly. "You admit it."

Castiel frowns. "Admit what?"

Lucas leans forward, chains clinking as they shift. "Your guilt."

"What are you talking about?" Castiel demands.

Lucas's eyes hone in on Castiel's, his voice low and sharp. "I know exactly why you went to Kenny's grave, Cas, and it has nothing to do with respect."

Castiel clenches his fists and his fingernails dig into his clammy palms. "How dare you –"

"Oh, please," Lucas sneers. "Spare me the holier-than-thou routine. I know you. And you and I both know you're not the saint they're making you out to be."

Castiel's mouth goes dry, and he loses the words on his tongue.

"You went to Kenny's grave," Lucas continues razor sharp, "because two years ago when you got the call, when you got the call in this rotting shithole that they'd turned up another dead kid, the first thing you felt… was relief."

Castiel's nose and throat sting, and he struggles to swallow against the lump in his throat.

"And then you came here, to take a look at me and feel better about yourself." Lucas chuckles. "You're pathetic, Cassie. You're so goddamn pathetic."

"Shut up," Castiel growls. "Shut up, you fuck."

Lucas shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "My word. Where did you learn such language?" Then he smiles slowly to himself, deeply and darkly amused.

"You're a monster," Castiel insists hoarsely. "You don't deserve to live."

Lucas shrugs. "Monster is such a subjective term."

Castiel clenches his jaw. "You killed children and took out their eyeballs and teeth."

Lucas gazes at him dispassionately. "You prayed for them to be killed."

The wind knocks out of Castiel like he's been punched in the gut.

"I know you did. Probably more than once." His voice is so cool now, so certain. "You prayed that another child would be killed so your name would be cleared." He cocks his head and chews his lip. "I'm guessing you didn't mention that when Anderson Cooper interviewed you."

Castiel stands up and motions to the guard watching through the plate glass window.

"Maybe you're saving it for your biography," Lucas suggests.

The guard unlocks the door for Castiel and watches Lucas very carefully.

Lucas narrows his eyes. "Or maybe you're just a coward."

The door closes behind Castiel and he goes through security blindly, walking through the entrance hall and barely noticing as Dean falls in step beside him.

"Did you say what you wanted to say?" Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head and walks out to the car without a word.

….

Dean parks outside Castiel's apartment building, a brown brick building with a terraced roof. "So that's it?"

Castiel nods.

"I'm not gonna lie, I thought there would be more to your list," Dean admits. "I thought it was gonna be full-on movie montage length."

"Thank you for your help," Castiel says. "I hope you can walk away from this experience with a clear conscience."

Dean considers and purses his lips. "Well, I would, except for the hookers."

Castiel chuckles.

Dean can't take his eyes off him, for some reason. Everything about this entire man just boggles his mind, and he wants to say... part of him wants to ask him to meet again. To ask if he likes flag football. To give him his address. To become friends.

That's not something he can ask. It's not something he _should_ ask of someone he's wronged as deeply as he has Castiel.

"Anyway, if you ever need anything, you know… call me up," Dean offers. "And thanks for, uh, for the whole… forgiveness thing, even if I still don't think that… I, uh, deserve it exactly."

"You're welcome," Castiel says.

"Well, then, I guess… it's been real," Dean finishes.

Castiel nods.

Then Castiel gets out of the car and walks back to his apartment building, and Dean watches him go, wondering what will become of him now. It's a strange ending to a difficult journey, and oddly anticlimactic.

Dean knows that they won't cross paths again – and he's right. After that day, he doesn't hear from Castiel again.

Until three months later.

…..

"Dean, you're turning them into charcoal," Sam insists. "Just let me handle the steaks."

Dean clacks the tongs at him threateningly. "My barbecue, my rules!"

"Would you idjits knock it off?" Bobby groans. "I haven't drunk enough beer yet to handle this level of bickering."

Dean opens his mouth to sass back when the opening chords of Smoke on the Water start to rumble in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and checks the number – unknown. Dean frowns and presses to answer. "Hello?"

"Sherrriff." The voice is deep and slurred thick, one Dean doesn't recognize. "Sheriff Winnchester?

And then it clicks.

Dean grips the phone tight. "Is that – Castiel? Is that you?"

Sam does a double take.

And then the voice on the other end says,

"Sheriffff, I… I did something bad…"

...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _My quintessential quails! Oh, I am so grateful for your support. I seriously get the nicest reviews from you guys, and I have a hard time believing that any other fan author out there has readers quite as awesome and kind as mine. You guys help restore my self-esteem after I take a practice final in Civil Procedure and accidentally misread the major question. (I did the entire 50-minute answer wrong because I was writing about the wrong people from the hypothetical given.) Even though that makes me MILDLY DEFINITELY CERTAIN that I will flunk out of law school, you guys give me hope that I can fall back on my lush, profitable homoerotica career! So take THAT, failure! *triumphant fist pump*_

_*Side note: I'm also beginning to apply for summer internships, and I have to include a writing sample. An evil, evil part of me wants to give one of my fanfics as a writing sample just to give the application-reader a coronary. But then the rational, job-loving part of me wins over and prevents me from acting on my urges. _

_ANYWAYS, thank you all for reviewing. I really and truly appreciate you. This week's reward for reviewing is... *drum rolllllll*_

_A BRAND NEWGENTLYUSED BROKEN VCR! _

_Wait - I'm sorry - I'm being told that nobody wants my old broke VCR. As a substitute, CarrotCorp will be offering you home videos of her and her cousins as children, frolicking in the out-of-doors and pretending to be orphaned Native Americans, painting with the colors of the wind and listening to wolves crying to the blue corn moon and building wigwams out of twigs because Native Americans are awesome and totally have magic powers.**_

_** CarrotCorp apologizes profusely from the stereotypes contained in that last sentence. However, as a child she and her cousins really did pretend to be orphaned natives and she totally did think that if anybody had magic, it would be Native Americans. She blames Disney. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

The entirety of Dean's attention narrows in to the voice on the phone. "Castiel. What did you do? Are you okay?"

"No… not okay not..." The gravelly voice is slow and slurred. "I told you, I did baaaaaad thing... To me… Myself…"

"Castiel. Talk to me. I need to know where you are." Dean's aware that he's slipping straight into sheriff mode and he doesn't care. He hands Sam his tongs and walks inside the house.

"Partment," Castiel says. "One-oh-thhree. Oh, Sheriff. I lllll_iked_ you. I liked you even…" He laughs, loose and uneven. "Oh, it's allllll fucked up now. I did it… Isss done…"

"Castiel," Dean says, clear and steady, "What did you do?"

"Goodbye," he says. "Goodbye, Dean. It'sssss… been real." And the line goes dead.

Dean grabs his keys off the kitchen table. He dials Castiel's number again.

Voice mail.

He gets in the car and drives to Castiel's apartment complex on the other side of town, blowing through speed limits like he still has a siren on the roof. A line of sweat is beading along his temple and his hands tingle with adrenaline because he knows, part of him knows –

No, no. It can't be that. Castiel was so calm, months ago. So together. He wouldn't…

Dean parks the car crookedly and yanks back the parking brake, sprinting up the cement steps to the blue front door of the apartment building. A little old lady in a green housecoat is fumbling with her keys at the door, and it's just as she gets it open that Dean slips by her and darts inside; he ignores her indignant cry. He ignores everything. He's getting that peculiar tunnel vision he used to get during a raid, when the world would become specific and focused and clear. He runs down the hall and finds 103, reaches for a gun he doesn't have, pounds his fist on the door.

"Cas," he announces loudly. "Castiel, let me in."

No response.

He tries the knob. It's locked.

_Not okay. I did a bad thing._

Dean glances up and down the empty hallway.

Then he steps back, raises up his foot and kicks the door in.

"Castiel!" he calls, entering the apartment quickly and glancing around him. Empty, clean living room, bare and white. Adjoining kitchen, also empty. Spotless clean, hygienic sanitized clean. "Cas, buddy, where are you?" Every instinct in his body is on alert. Every hair on end. Something is wrong here, so incredibly wrong he can hear it, like a tinny high-pitched whine in his ear.

There's a folded piece of notebook paper lying on the coffee table.

Dean unfolds it. Two words scrawled in pencil:

_I'm sorry_

"_Castiel!"_ Dean hollers, running toward the bedroom, heartbeat hammering in against his collarbone. "_Castiel!"_

Bedroom is empty. The bathroom door is ajar, and Dean approaches and pushes it open –

A body. Dark hair. Facedown. Unconscious. Vomit.

Everywhere, vomit. Stench.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Send an ambulance, quick, this guy overdosed, I don't know what on. Please, the address is 8245 Maple Hill, it's Apartment 103, I can't – I think he's got a pulse but I don't – I don't think he's breathing Jesus fucking Christ I – I need a medic, _please!_"

….

When Sam arrives at the hospital, he is taken aback by what he finds. Dean is pacing in the waiting room looking ten years older, haggard and pale, and with a closed determined set to his face. He hasn't looked quite this bad since… well, since Kenny Whidbey. Sam is suddenly afraid that the worst has happened.

"So… how is he?" he asks cautiously.

"He's sleeping," Dean says. "He's gonna be okay."

The breath Sam was holding in releases, and an unexpected weight lifts off his shoulders.

"He'll probably be out for awhile, they said," Dean continues. "He drank himself under the table and then overdosed on a bunch of sleeping pills, which apparently is the best case scenario in this kind of situation."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You mean, versus cutting his wrists?"

Dean snorts. "Versus OD'ing on _Tylenol_. You'd be surprised, Sam, the damage you can do with a basic Walgreens inventory." He pinches his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and groans. "But you know, I wouldn't say no to an ibuprofen right now."

"You should go home," Sam urges. "You look like shit, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, I want to hang here until his emergency contact shows up."

"Are you alright?" Sam can't get over how worn Dean looks, the worried clench of his hands.

Dean sighs. "I'm fine, Sam, it's just a headache."

Sam tries to choose the gentlest way to phrase his concern. "It's just… it seems like you're really taking this to heart," he says tentatively. "That's not to say – yes, it's horrible what happened, but… you said he's gonna be okay, and you've seen this kind of thing before. You barely even know the guy, and you've seen worse. A lot worse."

Dean looks down at the floor, and takes a deep breath. He meets Sam's eyes again. "This is different," he says firmly. "Can't you see that?"

Sam snorts. "Yeah, I can _see_ that, I just can't see _why_."

"Because this one is _on me!_" Dean grits his teeth and his eyes burn with a savage ferocity. He points towards a nearby closed door. "The man in that room tried to kill himself because he's got nothing left, and I'm the one who took it all away. If he dies, his death is on my head, do you _get it_, _Sammy_?"

Everything falls into place in Sam's mind. He moves closer, puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, and lowers his voice. "Dean. You've got to take a step back from this. You're too close."

"Why?" Dean snaps, jerking away. "Because I'm getting too emotional about an _attempted suicide_?"

"No, because you're _wrong_," Sam retorts.

Dean's mouth presses tight, and he looks at the wall.

"Yes, Dean, seven years ago you fucked up. We all fucked up. The _system_ fucked up, and the system failed Castiel Goodwin." Sam exhales through his nose, frustrated. "You're not responsible for the rest of his life, Dean, anymore than I am, or the taxpayers of Washington."

He can see Dean doesn't believe him. The guy just shakes his head and looks at Castiel's door.

"Fine. I'm going home. Go ahead and put yourself through the wringer," Sam says. "Pull him into your frigging hero complex. Just don't come crying to me when you realize there's nothing you can do."

Dean's eyes snap to Sam's, sharp and defiant.

Sam meets his eyes levelly. "You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

With that, Sam turns to leave. And though he hears a muttered "bitch" follow him out the door, he doesn't stop to explain to his brother that he wasn't talking about Castiel.

…

Dean's been dozing in the chair in Castiel's darkened room for a couple of hours when the door cracks quietly open. A short, squirrelly-looking man with bed-matted brown hair wanders in hestitantly. The seams of his shoes are splitting apart and his beige cardigan is coated in small nubby balls; his pants appear to be some sort of flannel pajama pant, baggy and plaid. Dean just slouches in his chair and watches him. When the man finally spots the sleeping form in the bed and approaches, Dean speaks. "You here for Castiel?"

The man jumps a foot, then stares at Dean. "I – yes. I'm his emergency contact. Who are you?"

"Dean Winchester." Dean sticks out his hand. "I'm the one who found him. He, uh, he called me right before..."

The little man shakes Dean's hand. "Chuck Shirley. Sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances, De–" Suddenly his gray eyes widen. "Oh, shit, you're the sheriff!"

Dean gives a tight, rueful smile. "Former sheriff. Resigned."

"Right!" Chuck clutches one hand to his mussed hair. "I forgot! You see, I'm Castiel's therapist –"

"_Therapist_?" Dean asks incredulously.

" – and I'm the one who encouraged him to get in touch with you some months ago, as sort of a, a, a, a form of _closure_ on a painful chapter in his – "

"You?" Dean demands. "_You're_ his therapist?"

Chuck stops and frowns at him. "Yes. Do you have some sort of problem with that?"

"Do I –" Dean laughs sharply. "Well, for one, I'm having a hard time picturing you therapizing, well, _anybody_ –"

Chuck glares and draws himself up. "_Counseling _is the word, actually."

" – and then there's the little fact that your_ patient_ just shotgunned a few bottles of whiskey and horked down a fistful of Valium," Dean rants. "What kind of quack doctor are you? I thought therapy was supposed to _prevent_ suicide! Here I am, thinking I should _get_ him a shrink –"

Chuck opens his mouth to interject. "I –"

" – and I just assumed that for something like this to happen, he'd stopped getting help, and now it turns out you're psycho-analyzing him straight to the cemetery! And probably sucking his bank account dry, too, right –"

"That's not –"

"– you charge him 200 bucks an hour so he can end up lying in a pool of his own vomit, where the hell did you go to school, goddamn _Bangladesh –_"

"SHUT UP!" Chuck yells.

Dean shuts his mouth, surprised.

Chuck blinks a few times, like he can't quite believe he did that. He straightens his ratty cardigan and takes a deep, shaky breath. "Now. Before you start working yourself into a – a rabid froth, let me draw your attention to the facts."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"You investigated Castiel, so you know as well as I do that his only family is Daphne and Lucas." Chuck chews his cheek. "Now Daphne's gone, and Lucas is… gone. I tried to get him to reconnect with his old friends, but he's a different person now and they all expect him to be the same." He scratches his collar. "He has a hard time meeting new people, so he doesn't want to move away, but most everybody in this county knows who he is, what he was accused of doing. With the money from the state he doesn't need a job, so he doesn't have one. He mostly keeps to himself, at his apartment, alone."

Dean crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "What's your point?"

Chuck sighs. "My point is this: I'm Castiel's therapist." He glances at the unconscious man in the bed. "And I'm also his emergency contact."

The implications of his words sink in, and Dean wipes a hand across his mouth.

"I can counsel him until I'm blue in the face," Chuck says, "and I'll always be there to listen, but what Cas needs is a friend. And there's nothing more I can do for him there. It's not my role." Chucks eyes are round and resigned. "I can't cure sheer loneliness."

Dean sighs through his nose, looking away and refusing to meet Chuck's gaze.

"How long will he be out?" Chuck asks.

"Awhile," Dean answers, clearing his throat. "They said he'll probably be out for quite awhile."

"Then, while I'm here…" Chuck walks over and sits down in the chair next to Dean. "Why don't you explain to me why _you're_ here?"

Dean crosses his arms and starts to explain.

…..

**Three Hours Later**

"So you're saying…." Dean narrows his eyes. "If I make my peace with Dad, I'll be able to get along with Sam."

"Well, that's simplifying the matter considerably," Chuck hedges. "But essentially, yes. You won't be able to break out of your dependency pattern with Sam until you confront the burden of duty you feel towards your father's memory."

Dean purses his lips. "Well, I guess you –"

Castiel groans.

Dean and Chuck instantly go silent, refocusing on the bed next to them. Castiel shifts under his sheets, his eyes still closed but his right arm slowly moving towards his neck. The light blue hospital gown accentuates the pallor of his skin and the hollows of his eyes. Eventually he blinks, squinting at the overhead lamp.

"Castiel," Dean says. "You with us?"

Castiel blinks again, and he cranes his head up a little.

"Hey, Cas," Chuck greets him, with a little wave. "Chuck here. How are you feeling?"

Castiel blinks at him, and then drops his head heavily back down on the pillow.

Dean turns to Chuck. "Hey, I'm sure you're gonna want to… talk things out with him. But could you give me a minute to talk to him? Alone?"

"Sure." Chuck stands up and stretches. "I'll be out by the vending machines. I'll let the nurse know he's awake." He walks out of the room with a last darting glance from Castiel to Dean, and shuts the door behind him.

Dean gets up and scoots his chair around closer to the head of the bed, and he grabs the cup of water on the bedside table. "You thirsty? The doctor said you might be thirsty."

Castiel nods and takes the cup weakly, tilting it hesitantly and slurping some of the water. He hands it back to Dean.

"So." Dean sits down and puts his hands on his knees. "You're alive. I found you after you passed out."

Castiel closes his eyes.

"Why –" Dean clears his throat. "Why did you do that, Castiel?"

Cas squeezes his eyes shut harder, and his adam's apple bobs. He finally speaks, his voice a low scratchy rumble. "Dean, I… I don't have any answers."

Dean just waits.

Cas sighs. "I. I was weak. I knew everyone would be angry and disappointed but I thought… I thought it would be easier." He gestures emptily with his hands. "I've done everything I wanted to do, Dean. I have no unfinished business. I have everything I wanted so desperately in prison and it means… nothing." Castiel looks toward the window and looks out over the nightline of the city with a dark blank gaze. "I'm ready to die," he whispers.

"I don't believe that for one second."

Castiel's eyes snap to Dean's.

"You called me, Cas." Dean sets his jaw firmly. "We haven't spoken in three months, and you called me to tell me what you'd done because you wanted someone to stop you."

"I was intoxicated," Cas points out.

"You were scared," Dean counters. "You wanted someone to care that you were dying."

Cas doesn't deny it.

"Well, you got your wish, Cas, because I care," Dean says. "But unfortunately for you, that means I'm not going to just walk away from this."

Cas's eyebrows furrow upward.

"Look." Dean rests his elbow on the arm of the chair. "My brother Sam just moved out of my place a month ago to go live with his girlfriend. I haven't found somebody to rent his room yet." He shakes his head. "And this is probably the worst idea on the planet, but… I think you should come live with me."

Castiel stares at him like he's grown another head.

"I'm not asking you to be besties and get friendship rings," Dean adds quickly. "I know we're not on… those kinds of terms. And honestly, I don't have the right to ask you to be friends with me. But I don't think you should live alone, and even if you don't know me from Adam, at least I'm another human being."

"You don't have to do this, Dean," Cas says. "I'm not your responsibility. I forgave you."

Dean counts off on his fingers. "Number one: I don't have to, I want to. Number two: of course you are, and number three – well." He cracks a wry smile. "It's not that easy to get rid of me."

Castiel considers for a moment.

"If I live at your house," he asks, "Can Shakira come over?"

"No," Dean states. "She probably has crabs."

…..


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _I have a final tomorrow. I don't know why I'm writing fanfiction. I'm horribly irresponsible. I should be studying. No time for pithy notes. Thank you for reviewing, you are all great and I love you._

_Review incentive: Here. Have a candy bar. This candy bar is for reviewers only. I am too tired to think of something better._

_Oh, and I have a livejournal with the same username. I will be posting this chapter with interesting links to my inspiration-source material tomorrow._

_Bonus reward: I plotted out the rest of this story, and holy balls it is long._

_Anti-reward: It's going to take me forever to write. :(_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

A week after Castiel is released from the hospital, he moves into Dean's house. He doesn't have much stuff – just a few boxes, a garment bag and a few paintings he brought. Paintings of bright yellow impressionistic flowers, heavy brushstrokes and thick smears of paint.

"You probably like Van Gogh, huh," Dean comments as he holds one of the paintings.

"Everyone likes Van Gogh," Castiel says, positioning the nail on the wall.

Dean shrugs. "Eh. I think he's overrated."

Castiel slowly lowers the nail and stares at him. Then he takes the painting from Dean's hands. "You're not allowed to touch my art."

Dean laughs.

….

That evening, Dean hosts an informal little welcome dinner because he assumes that's what you do when you invite a suicidal man you wrongfully sent to prison to come live with you. He has no idea what the hell he's even doing. But then, that kind of sums up the tailspin he's been in for the past few months, so as they say in the military, SNAFU – Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

At dinner, Sam is that special kind of pissy.

Oh, you know, the special concentrated pissy that Sam has perfected over the years for use in polite company. It's reserved solely for Dean and his aim is extremely precise. To Amelia and Cas and Bobby, he's all smiles and charm and laughter, and then Dean will happen to glance up at an odd moment and be hit with seven tons of unmitigated savage eye-balling.

You know what? Fuck Sam and the high horse he rode in on.

"So how do you know Dean?" Castiel asks Bobby.

"His dad worked in my scrap yard, before he joined the force," Bobby says. "John actually introduced me to my wife, Jody. She's a deputy."

"Where _is_ Jody?" Amelia asks.

"Work," Bobby answers. "She got a call, had to check it out." He eyes Dean. "She's been real busy ever since some idjit sheriff resigned and she had to step in."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"You're talking about Dean," Cas observes seriously.

Sam hides his smile by biting into a dinner roll.

"Since we're talking about Dean, is there anything I should know about him now that I'll be living in his house?" Castiel asks.

Dean chokes on his beer.

"You know, Castiel, I am _so_ glad you asked," Sam answers sunnily, rubbing his hands together.

"Easy, Sam," Amelia says under her breath in a warning tone.

"Let's see: he drinks too much, he never vacuums, and he won't answer the landline because –" Sam makes air quotes with his fingers – "it's 'never for him.'"

"He sleeps with a lot of women, so don't be surprised if he's gone on the weekends," Bobby chimes in. "And he eats positively _abnormal_ amounts of delivery pizza."

"Hey!" Dean interjects. "You don't even live with me!"

"I lived with you for three months in '09 when I broke my leg," Bobby retorts. "It was long enough."

"He drinks all the milk but won't ever buy a new gallon," Sam continues. "He leaves dishes in the sink even when the dishwasher is empty –"

"At least I don't eat a metric fuckton of _olives_!" Dean barks. "Olive cans everywhere! How the hell do you even eat that many olives, Sam? Do you use them in arts and crafts projects?"

"OH, I'm _sorry_ for my olive cans," Sam shoots back. "You probably found them on the counter because the _recycling_ was full of your _beer bottles_ –"

"Like you don't drink! And why don't you just _throw them away_? Why do we have to recycle EVERY goddamn THING in this house –"

"I'm sorry if I care about the _planet_ –"

"All you care about is your fucking OCD –"

"At least l don't make sex noises when I eat –"

"At least I buy REAL GODDAMN FOOD YOU GODDAMN –"

"OKAY!" Sam stands up and clenches his jaw sideways. "Dean, can I have a word with you in the kitchen?"

Dean stands up and gestures one flat hand toward the kitchen doorway. "After you, princess!"

They exit with stiff shoulders and tight glares, leaving Bobby, Amelia, and Cas sitting silently at the table.

"Does this happen often?" Castiel asks.

Bobby rubs his temple. "Depressingly so."

….

"You and I can't even hold a civil dinner conversation after living together, and we're brothers," Sam hisses. "How do you think that's going to work out with a complete stranger?"

"We can't hold a civil conversation _because_ we're brothers," Dean argues. "And for once, Sammy, I'd like it if you had a little faith in me!"

"For _once_?" Sam asks disbelievingly. "Dean, I've always 'had faith'. I've had your back when nobody, nobody in the whole county thought you could pull it off. I've supported you since day one."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, you believe I can catch the bad guy," he says. "You trust me to kick some criminal's ass. You don't trust me in my personal life, Sam. You don't trust me to make the right decisions, to make the judgment calls – you don't _trust me_ that I know what I'm doing right now."

Sam raises his eyebrows skeptically. "Do you, Dean?"

Dean pauses and licks his lips, and briefly considers lying. He tilts his head sideways and admits, "Well, okay, not _exactly_."

Sam huffs and throws his hands in the air.

"_But_," Dean adds, "what I do know is that this feels like the right thing to do. In my gut, Sam, this feels like the right thing. I know you can feel it too."

Sam looks to the sink instead of at Dean and crosses his arms, puts a hand to his chin, rubs thumb along the side of his lower lip.

"All I'm asking is that you back me up on this." Dean leans his hip against the counter. "I know I've… I've asked a lot from you this past year, but I just… I need you in my corner, Sam."

Sam sighs. "Dean, I'm always in your corner. You know that. I just worried about the fallout if this turns out to be a mistake."

"It won't." Dean chews the inside of his cheek and squints. "I'm like, 58 percent sure."

Sam shoves him in the shoulder and walks past him, back towards the dining room. "Asshat."

"Well, you're an ass_clown_," Dean shoots back, before following him back out to dinner.

….

When the dishes are cleared and the beers are finished and the others finally go home, Dean and Cas are left in the quiet empty house.

It's a warm night, a thick summer night with black skies and crickets in the grass. The house is old and well-built, with a big sprawling yard that looks silver in the darkness, and it only feels natural to pull up chairs on the porch and sit out in the slowly fading heat and listen to the summer. Dean isn't sure whether to crack open another beer, so he opts to forgo it. The two of them just sit and gaze up at the gauzy clouded moon.

"This is the house I grew up in," Dean says. "My dad's house."

"It's nice," Cas says.

"Thanks. It's nice that it's all paid for."

Cas tilts his head slightly. "How long ago did your father pass away?"

Dean swallows and rubs his shoulder. "It's been about… wow, about eight years now?"

"My condolences."

"Thanks," Dean says. "He was killed in the line of duty. He was a deputy." "

"So you became a deputy because of him?" Cas asks.

Dean nods. "Was pretty much all I ever wanted to be. Wanted to grow up just like him… Becoming sheriff was just sort of icing on the cake."

Cas nods slowly and looks back up at the moon.

Dean clears his throat. "By the way, I'm unemployed at the moment, so. I'll be hanging around the house tomorrow."

Cas looks over at him. "You haven't found a job?"

Dean sighs. "It turns out I have a very specific skill set."

"I'm not working either," Cas remarks.

Before prison, he was a music teacher, Dean remembers. He taught piano to kids. He played piano for his church.

Dean nods. "Market's bad, huh?"

Castiel looks down at his hands, loosely clasped in his lap. "That's part of it."

The crickets sing in the grass, and a gray shadow drifts across the face of the moon.

"The other part is… the music," Castiel slowly admits. "I used to believe… I used to feel deeply, in my soul, that my music was a gift from God. When I listen to music, when I play, when I'm a part of a greater symphony creating something beautiful – that is when I feel the most spiritually whole."

Dean listens closely, staring out at the pale silver grass, dreading what he can already sense Cas will say.

"After my conviction… I lost faith." Castiel exhales heavily. "And since then… music hasn't been the same."

Dean closes his eyes.

He takes a deep breath. "Cas, I –"

"Don't apologize," Cas interrupts. "Please."

Dean clenches his hand tight. "How can I _not_?"

"Because I don't hold you responsible." Cas's voice is firm. "I don't want you to feel agonizing remorse every time I speak about my experiences. I have accepted them. I need you to accept them."

"But don't you want me to suffer a little?" Dean asks.

"No," Cas answers. "I want to be friends."

Something inside Dean's lungs catches tight, fisted in his sternum. He looks to Cas, and in the porchlight he can see the relaxed posture of the man, the languid slope of his arms, the signs of truth in his body language.

He really means it.

"I'd like to be your friend." Cas's eyes flicker to Dean's. "I have too few."

The knot in Dean's chest twists.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me too."

They sit there staring at each other, trapped in the moment like amber.

Looking back later, Dean will be able to pinpoint this moment as the moment his future became irretrievably entwined with Castiel's, the moment he first looked into Cas's eyes and saw that this man was someone you couldn't find anywhere else in the world and someone he could never replace and someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life learning to understand. Dean knew from this moment on that the second Cas left his life, he would be lonely and empty and cold; and when Cas did, he was.

But that's far ahead of us. Tonight, the moon is soft and bright, and the crickets sing.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _My pulchritudinous petunias! Oh, how I delight in your delightful faces. Thank you once again for your wonderful, motivational reviews. This week was a very tough week because I was extremely busy AND I somehow came down with an illness I have diagnosed as snot-fountain-itis. It's a very rare disease. It makes my head all heavy and bleh and causes my writing to be similarly heavy and bleh. It took me twice as long to get half the wordcount I was aiming for. _

_HOWEVER, I hope you will enjoy what I have managed to snot out for you. I stayed up extra late to finish it for you. Your reward, should you choose to review, is - _

_Okay, time out, let's back it up. I have to talk about Dean's face for a second. Or more accurately, Jensen Ackles's face. In the episode "Citizen Fang", aka The One with Benny, he has this scene where he's talking to Elizabeth, Benny's granddaughter or whatever. (Did any of you recognize the actress as the poor mother from the Kids Are Alright episode in season 3? I sure did! Because I'm OCD like that!) Anyway, he's giving her his number in case she sees Benny, and then he remembers that she's hot and he tells her to give him a call anyways. And then he smiles at her. It starts out as an ordinary smile, but then, just a split second before the camera cuts away - _

_He puts in something extra. A mischievous glint comes to eyes, they light up with it. The smile curls up around the corners. There's just something about his overall expression that's this amazing, "I know I shouldn't but I'm gonna anyways, aren't I bad?" kind of look, the kind of look you give someone after you pull a prank in plain sight, and it's so fucking goddamn fucking adorable that I just want to rewind the clip and watch it again and again and again. It's seriously that last split second. _

_Jesus. I need Jensen in my life. _

_Okay, so that split second of glorious heaven? THAT'S YOUR REWARD. You get that, forever, for the rest of eternity, that smile directed right at you! All for the low low price of one review! WHAT AMAZING DEALS, THESE DEALS ARE PRACTICALLY ILLEGAL!*_

_*These deals are, in fact, illegal. It is illegal to force someone to smile for the rest of their lives. I learned this in law school. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

Bright grey morning light glows through the crack in the kitchen curtains. A blanket of clouds rolled in during the night; Dean can already tell it's going to be a hot thick day under a low white sky. He sits at the maple kitchen table and sucks down his coffee, wearing his Tasmanian Devil boxers and the maroon fleece robe Sam got him for Christmas some years ago. He's not a robe guy, but hey. New roommate. He oughta manage some decorum.

Castiel staggers in fifteen minutes later, a serious case of bedhead and squinty eyes. He doesn't have a robe, but he is wearing a baggy blue t-shirt and black boxers, and pink pillow marks stripe across his left cheek. He blinks groggily at Dean. "Coffee?"

Dean nods his head toward the countertop, where the coffeemaker sits. "I got half a pot left."

Castiel grunts his thanks and rattles around in the cupboards until he remembers where the mugs are. He pours his cup and drinks it at standing at the counter, making very small gratified sounds as he does so.

Dean chuckles to himself. "You an addict?"

Cas stumbles over to the table and sits down heavily next to Dean. "Yes. In multiple senses."

Dean doesn't ask him to elaborate, but raises an eyebrow.

"My doctor switched my insomnia medication. Since I…" Cas sighs into his mug and doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "Anyway, I'm feeling the effects."

"Oh." Dean drinks some more of his coffee. "I'm just in it for the buzz."

They sit quietly and drink their coffee.

"Wanna play videogames all day?" Dean asks.

Cas considers. "I'm going to go running. I'd also like to go to the library, if you wouldn't mind driving."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "You sound like Sam. But alright. Hey, if you like the library, maybe they have a job opening there."

Cas doesn't respond to Dean's suggestion. Instead he asks, "What video games do you play?"

"I like first-person shooters the best," Dean says, "but I play a little of everything. You got anything you're good at? I have an old-school N64, if that changes anything for ya."

"Well," Cas ventures tentatively, "I'm fairly skilled at Wii bowling…"

Dean stands up from the table. "Okay, then it's final. Finish your coffee and take a shower. We're playing Call of Duty."

…

**August, Three Weeks Later**

"Steeeee-RIKE!" Dean crows, pumping the controller in the air. "Suck on that!"

Cas takes a bite of his piece of pizza and frowns at the same time. "Cheader," he garbles around his food.

"That's not cheating, that's dexterous wrist control," Dean says, flexing his wrists back and forth for show. "I'm bowling a perfect game, son, and there's nothing you can do about it."

The doorbell rings.

Dean sighs and puts down his Wiimote. "I'll be back," he warns, jogging to the front door.

When he swings open the door, for a moment Dean squints at the bright sunlight shining in. When his eyes adjust, he sees a short woman in a khaki county uniform standing on the porch, black hair pulled back in a tight bun, right hand on her hip holster, and she's gazing at him with a spectacularly unimpressed expression.

"Jody," he says weakly. "Hey." He gestures to the six-pointed sheriff badge on her chest. "The star looks good on you."

Jody smiles briefly and then narrows her eyes. "You haven't been answering my calls."

Dean rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry, I've been… really busy. Just swamped, actually."

Jody lowers her eyes to his AC/DC shirt and worn sweatpants and slowly brings them back up. She nods to his shirt. "You've got a little something there."

Dean looks down, craning his neck and pulling his shirt forward to look at it. "Oh, that's just. Uh. Pizza sauce."

Jody's eyes narrow even further.

Dean smiles sheepishly, in a please-don't-tase-me kind of way.

"Take a shower, Winchester," she orders. "Then get dressed and get your ass down to the station. I've got work for you." She turns to walk away.

"Jody, wait –" Dean grabs her arm. "What are you talking about?"

Jody glares at the hand on her arm, and he retracts it quickly. Then she glances back up to Dean's face, and smirks at him. "Bring your friend," she tells him. "It's time he got a little fresh air, too."

…

"Why are we going?" Castiel asks, absently knotting his tie sideways.

"I don't know, but we gotta be prepared for anything," Dean replies, buttoning up his green pinstripe shirt. He glances at Cas and does a double-take, then reaches over to straighten Cas's tie. "All I know is that if we _don't_ go, she'll shoot us. Or rather, me. She'll shoot me. She'd probably just friggin' _cuddle_ you and give you a lollipop."

Cas frowns. "Why would she cuddle me?"

"Oh, you know!" Dean gestures hasty circles in Cas's direction. "You got that whole big-eyed adorable thing going on that women love." He yanks his own tie tight. "They're suckers for it, Cas. You could play her like a violin if you wanted. But me…" Dean gives himself a once-over in the mirror and flashes a cheeky smile. "Well. They can tell I got the devil in me."

Cas gazes at him seriously in the mirror, looking somber in his suede jacket. "You should see a priest about that."

Dean chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. "Sure. I'll pencil in an exorcism next week."

…

Dean walks through the station warily, between the cubicles and cluttered desks, nodding to the people he knows. He's surprised how many he doesn't recognize at all. They all watch him closely, expressions slightly stunned. They weren't expecting him. Sweat dampens his collar. He rolls his shoulders uneasily.

Castiel looks just as uncomfortable. He probably thinks they're looking at him, and maybe they are. But Dean is equally certain that they're ogling the disgraced ex-sheriff, the walking talking morality tale, the subject of water cooler gossip and heated whispers now slinking before them with his tail between his legs, badgeless, gunless, naked.

Damn Jody and her taser.

When they finally reach the glass office door, Dean can't help but to hesitate before opening it. A few months ago, this was _his_ office. He's not sure he's ready to face the music.

"Dean?" Cas says.

Dean takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

Jody's sitting there, waiting, smiling pleasantly like she's not a horrible evil monster. "You showered!"

"Yeah yeah yeah, nice to see you too," Dean grumbles. "Cas, this is Sheriff Jody Singer. Sheriff, this is Castiel Goodwin."

She stands up and shakes Cas's hand. "Interim sheriff," she corrects. "And nice to finally meet you, Castiel."

Castiel nods. "Likewise. Your husband tells me you're a competent officer."

Jody smiles and tilts her head. "How… realistic of him to say. You know, he's very nearly competent himself." Then she pulls a file out of her drawer and flips it open, looking through the paperwork. "Alright. Here's what I called you in for." She hands the folder to Dean.

Dean thumbs through the documents, scanning the information.

"It's not much – just a string of petty car robberies in Cloverdale," Jody explains, "but there's so many of them and they're in such a small area that it's obvious we've got a habitual prowler. He's not even ripping off stereos, just whatever valuables are sitting in the cars, and most of them were unlocked in the first place, so… he's not a public enemy, exactly."

"What exactly do you want me to do, Singer?" Dean asks, frowning.

She crosses her arms across her chest and leans back in her chair. "I don't have the manpower to dedicate to bullshit like this. I want you to stake him out."

Castiel peers over Dean's shoulder, looking at the photographs paperclipped to the reports. "Isn't this a matter for the city police?" he asks.

"Cloverdale's unincorporated," Dean explains. "It's not a real city, just a region. They don't have their own force or fire department." He flips the file shut and redirects his attention back to the sheriff. "I'm not an officer anymore, Singer. You want me to stake him out and then what, perform a citizen's arrest?"

She shakes her head. "I'm hiring you as a private investigator – you do what they do. No confrontation. Just take pictures, gather evidence, and make an ID. Hand it over to me, and I'll write you a small check."

"You want to pay me?" Dean asks incredulously. "Why don't you just hire, I don't know, an _actual_ investigator?"

"You _are_ an investigator," she shoots back, "the best I know, and the most experienced, _and_ the most in need of a job."

Dean's jaw clenches tight, and he drops the file on her desk. "I'm not a fucking charity case, Jody," he snaps. "Don't you dare make me into one."

She stands up angrily and puts her hands on her desk. "I'm not!" she retorts. "I just know you'll work for cheaper than the other assholes in my phonebook!"

"I can do it," Cas says.

Both Dean and Jody blink at him.

He looks back and forth between the two of them. "It's simply… hiding and taking pictures, correct? Am I understanding the assignment correctly?"

"No," Dean answers. "Cas, you are not going to endanger yourself over some –"

Jody picks up the file and hands it to Cas. "Congratulations, Castiel," she says. "You got the case."

"_No!_" Dean repeats disbelievingly. "Over my dead body! He doesn't know the first thing about stake outs, Jody! He probably doesn't even own a camera –"

"I can buy one," Cas volunteers.

" – and he's going to get himself _shot_ or _stabbed_," Dean continues, pointing at Cas for emphasis, "and probably robbed, too."

Jody smirks. "Guess you'll just have to go with him, then, huh?"

"I would allow that," Cas says. "You have a car."

Dean narrows his eyes at Jody. "You're a horrible person. You know that, right?"

She just smiles and sits back down in her chair. "Time for you to get going, boys. I've got a meeting at four."

Dean and Cas leave the station bickering about who will get to operate the camera, oblivious to the curious bystanders' eyes following them out the door.

…

It's an easy enough assignment. Dean could do it in his sleep. He nearly does. Around midnight he jolts awake to Castiel's excited whisper.

"Dean!" Cas hisses. "Dean, I see someone!"

Rather than sit in the car and risk the Impala around a supposed car burglar, Dean and Cas have opted to hide inside the den of a nearby house – with the residents' permission, of course. They sit in the dark on a godawful yellow velour ottoman and spy through the blinds, Cas clutching his brand-new long-range camera. The room smells faintly of sweet pea and wet dog, and now Dean hunches next to Cas and becomes aware that his companion has a particular scent too, one that has become familiar to him over the past few weeks. He can analyze each separate ingredient: wool and cotton – his clothes. Wood chips and alcohol – his aftershave. A faint linger of mint – his "winter fresh" body wash. And something else, something he can't put his finger on that is distinctly Cas…

Dean blinks and mentally shakes himself. Focus! He peers out the blinds with his binoculars.

The most suspicious-looking man in the universe is currently moseying down the street, glancing behind him every so often. He's wearing baggy black clothes and a knit hat, but no face covering. He's got day-old scruff and nervous hands and a gray backpack.

"Take some pictures," Dean instructs. "Try to get some good ones of his face. This could be our guy."

Cas snaps photos quickly.

The man stops at the driveway and looks long at the minivan parked there. He looks around, sees the empty street, and then…

he walks away, farther down the street, out of eyesight and into the dark.

Cas starts to stand up.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean says, putting a hand to his arm. "Where you going?"

Cas gazes down at him with a quizzical twist of his eyebrows. "We're following him. Aren't we?"

"Sit down," Dean sighs. "We're not following him, Cas. He'd see us within seconds. We watch again for the next few nights, see if he shows up. We take pictures, we corroborate evidence, and later, _if_ something is stolen tonight, _and_ the other nights he shows up, the police bring him in for questioning. And _if _he doesn't have a good explanation or he has the goods or his fingerprints match up, they might file charges."

Cas sits back down slowly. "And if nothing is stolen?"

Dean shrugs. "Then we keep watching."

Cas mulls this over silently, gazing out the blinds. The street light outside shines in pale yellow bars across his face, and Dean is suddenly reminded of that morning in the diner when he only knew him as the man whose life he'd turned upside down.

"You know, I'm surprised you're okay with this," Dean says.

Cas's eyes turn to his.

"We haven't actually _seen _him do anything," Dean reminds him. "And these photographs could lead to his arrest."

Cas's mouth turns inward, and for a long moment he just looks at Dean. Finally, he quietly says, "I'm not prepared to turn over any information unless I'm certain. Even if… it would help. I hope you will respect that."

Dean leans forward and puts his hand to Cas's shoulder, giving it a squeeze, some kind of visceral desire to connect tugging at his bones. "Hey. I feel exactly the same. We're in this together, Cas, don't you doubt that for a second. I'm not gonna do anything to undermine you, alright?"

Cas smiles softly.

Dean's own smile echoes instinctively, soft and reassuring.

Then he picks the binoculars back up. "Okay then, eyes on the prize, Cas. Gotta stay up 'til dawn if we're gonna do this right…"

…

**September**

"And… here's your check," Jody concludes, signing on the line. "Who should I make it out to?"

Dean and Cas glance at each other.

"Uhhh… I think you technically gave Cas the case," Dean says.

"I'll still give you half," Cas says.

Dean snorts. "Thanks, Cas. I was really worried."

Jody writes Cas's name on the byline and tears it off. She hands it to him with a smile. "Congratulations, boys. You're in business. And while I've got you here…" She bends down and opens one of her desk drawers, pulling out a thick file. "I've got another case."

Dean drags a hand down his face. "Oh, Jesus, is this going to be a regular thing? I need sleep, woman."

"Oh relax," she scoffs. "This one's much easier. Just your run-of-the-mill park flasher…"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Hello again, my lovely ladybugs! I hope you all had a happy holiday season. I know mine was as stressful as it was enjoyable, but totally worth it in the end. Thank you for your reviews, and thank you for reading so far. This story is already taking some turns I didn't _quite_ expect, but I'm having fun with it and I hope you are too. Lucky for you, this chapter is extra long! And your reward for reviewing this week is..._

_A GENUINE ONE HUNDRED PERCENT REAL POUND OF ANGEL DUST! You're probably wondering how we make angel dust here at CarrotCorp. That's a good question! We just capture grass-fed, free-range angels and humanely shake their wings out. The little bits that fall out are harvested, bleached, dried, and ground into powder! (So I suppose it's really more Angel_ Dander_, per se...) Snort an ounce of angel dust and you too can simultaneously feel boundless cosmic euphoria of transcendence and the bottomless deep melancholy of immortality. Also a weight loss supplement!* _

_*Warning: snorting angel dust may result in weeping, bleeding, screaming, perpetual agony, extreme obedience, thoughts of suicide, cardiac arrest, a futile desire to save the human race from destroying itself through its own devices, and erectile dysfunction. Please consult your doctor before consuming. _

_ANYWAY, here's the chapter! _

* * *

**September, continued**

The fall is a series of successes. Crime after insignificant crime solved, cold hard photographs attached to every file, a rock solid conviction rate, and only a few rare cases where Dean and Cas elect not to follow through.

There are a few mishaps.

"Cas! Put down that camera and help me down from this fucking tree!"

"I'm documenting evidence."

"Evidence of _what_?"

"Your incompetence."

"SO HELP ME GOD, WHEN I GET DOWN FROM HERE –"

Overall, though, it's much easier than Dean's previous job. Of course it doesn't pay as much, but them's the breaks. Cas seems to be taking to it well, though he relegates himself to the job of photographer. In fact, Dean isn't allowed to touch the camera – which Dean decides to consider a trade-off with his rule against Cas driving the Impala. They work well as a team, and more importantly, the work is much less banal and boring with a partner. Life is less banal and boring with a partner.

**October**

Sam arrives early at the house on the Saturday before Halloween, the day they're all driving out to the pumpkin patch together and picking out some horrible misshapen squash atrocities. It's always a competition between Sam and Dean to get the ugliest pumpkin, probably since they're both shitty carvers; it's an annual tradition. And yet, even though he texted Dean at seven and told him to get his ass out of bed, it is now eight o'clock and he and Amelia are sitting in a Subaru in the driveway with no Dean or Cas in sight. Sam calls Dean's phone.

No answer.

"Maybe they're just running late," Amelia suggests. "You know they're always pulling odd hours for Jody."

Sam groans and unbuckles his seatbelt. "They probably forgot. Bobby's waiting on us. I'll just run in and see what's going on, alright?"

So he jogs up to the door and uses his spare key to unlock it. "Guys," he calls, "what's the hold up?"

No answer.

There's no sign of life in the living room or the kitchen, no evidence of breakfast or pumpkin-patch preparation at all. Sam balls his fists in frustration and marches down the hallway to Dean's room. He raises his hand to pound on the door, but before he can strike –

the door swings inward.

To Castiel.

Castiel, puffy-eyed with his hair matted to one side and wearing nothing but boxers.

In Dean's room.

Cas cocks his head, squinting in confusion. Sam freezes, fist still poised in the air, words caught in his throat.

"Hello," Castiel says in that gravel-deep voice of his. "I wasn't expecting you."

Dean's sleepy voice drifts out of the dark recesses of the bedroom. "Wha's goin' on, Cas?"

Sam can't even speak. No words. He opens and shuts his mouth several times.

"It's your brother," Cas answers, still squinting at Sam. "He appears to want something from me."

Something inside the room thumps and crashes. "SHIT! Shit shit shit –"

"Pumpkin patch," Sam manages to choke out. "We're going – pumpkins, I came here –"

And immediately Dean is shoving Cas out of the way, steering Sam out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him in Cas's face. "Sam. Sammy. It's not what it looks like."

"We were going to the _pumpkin _patch," Sam continues, still in a state of shock, his voice jumping unevenly in pitch, "and you're _sleeping_ with _Castiel_ –"

"Sam!" Dean's getting that tone now, that tone of command, that sheriff voice, pushing him toward the kitchen with a steady hand on his shoulder. "Calm down. I need you to listen to me and listen closely. It is _not _what it _looks like_."

Sam jerks out from under his hand. "You can't just-just– Jedi mind-trick me, Dean!" he bursts out. "You're sleeping with Cas! Oh my God Dean, you're _ga–_"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Shut up, and listen! I can explain everything if you just shut the fuck up." Dean grits his teeth and makes an emphatic chopping gesture with his hand. "Cas. Has. A sleepwalking. Problem. Okay?"

Sam stares.

"No!" Sam shouts. "No, not okay! That explains NOTHING, Dean!"

"The sleeping pills they have him on, the stuff he takes makes him sleepwalk!" Dean continues exasperatedly. "Sometimes he sleepwalks into my room and falls asleep on the floor or whatever, it's not a big –"

"Why don't you _lock your door?_" Sam yells. "Why doesn't he lock _his_ door? Why do you not see how bizarre this is –"

"You know the bedrooms don't have locks!" Dean interrupts angrily. "And I'm not going to install one just so Cas can feel all shitty about it, I genuinely don't mind, Sam, and I don't wake up, it only happens once in awhile, it's not a big deal and you don't need to make a federal case about it and you don't need to tell Amelia or Bobby or anyone and _let's all go to the pumpkin patch!"_ Dean runs out of breath on the last few words and takes a gulp of air.

Sam leans against the hallway wall and inhales and exhales several times, trying to process.

"And I can't believe you." Dean frowns and shakes his head. "Thinking I'm gay? Really?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "It was the only rational explanation."

"Sam." Dean rolls his eyes. "You and Bobby rag on me constantly for the number of women I sleep with. It is the _least_ rational explanation."

"I'm telling Amelia about this," Sam says. "That's not even up for debate."

Dean groans. "Sammyyyyy. C'mon. Don't. You'll make everything all weird."

Sam walks away through the kitchen and calls back to him, "Get dressed, Dean. We're getting pumpkins."

…..

Dean only sort of lied to Sam.

It's true that Cas has a sleepwalking problem, and it's true that it only happens once in awhile, and it's true that he _usually_ just ends up sprawled across the dining room table, or slumped against the oven, or asleep on Dean's bedroom floor like this morning. But one time he didn't. One night last week Cas crawled right into Dean's bed, and that's how Dean ended up realizing that most important thing he lied about: he's a little bit gay for Cas.

See, if Dean was a normal guy, he would've felt the bed dip with Cas's weight and he would've leapt up in alarm, instead of just snorting awake and murmuring, "Sup, Cas?" And when Cas patted his face and muttered, "_Quiet, horses_," a normal guy would've gotten up and taken Cas by the arm and guided him back to his own room, instead of sighing and flopping back into his pillow. And when Cas wriggled under the covers and settled his face into the crook of Dean's neck, a normal guy would have shoved him off and gotten up to go sleep on the couch. Instead, Dean just groaned and whispered, "You fuckin' weirdo," and did his best to go back to sleep.

That was when he knew. It was as simple as that. You don't let a grown man snuggle up to you in the dark unless you're a little bit gay for him.

It's okay, though. This isn't a big deal. Dean's a little bit gay for Clint Eastwood and Batman and John McClane and Dr. Sexy. It just turns out that somehow, Castiel Goodwin has established himself among their ranks, and all it means is that Dean lets him get away with shit that wouldn't fly with anybody else; it means that sometimes during a stakeout, sitting in the concealing shadows of the Impala on a chilly autumn night, Dean looks over at Cas with his cold-pinkened nose and serious dark eyes and he feels this big, expanding warmth in his chest and he feels lucky to know a man like him. It's not a sex thing. It's… a Cas thing.

So he doesn't tell Sam. Sam wouldn't ever let him live it down. And now they're at the pumpkin patch, and Sam is laughing too often and too loudly and Amelia and Bobby keep giving him weird looks, and Dean finally points towards the farthest corner of the field and says, "Okay, I'm going to look around thereabouts," and walks away.

It's a bright cold day, perfect for pumpkin hunting. Water-blue sky and sharp earthy tang in the air. The fields are muddy brown and well-trampled but there's plenty of fine specimens still on the ground, big orange lumpy ones with strange rough patches and small round green ones half sunk in the mud. They've all been cut from the vines, ready for harvest – ready to be snatched up by anyone strong enough to carry them and willing to put up with a little dirt.

Dean spots a whitish pumpkin with some promising warts and makes his way over, crouching down and brushing off the caked-on soil.

"Your brother seems distressed."

Dean jumps up, spins around, and finds himself nose to nose with Cas. He stumbles backward and nearly trips on the pumpkin. "Jesus! Don't sneak up on me like that."

"A few minutes he took me aside and asked me 'how I was,'" Cas continues, gazing at Dean. "I inferred he was referring to this morning, and my sleeping on your floor."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Typical Sam. What did you say?"

"I told him I was fine, though slightly sore," Cas says, "and that I must have been especially tired out by our activities last night, because I don't normally sleep through your alarm."

Dean stares, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Cas tilts his head. "What?"

"Did you – did you tell him we were staking out the K-Mart?" Dean asks.

Cas frowns. "I think he already knows that, Dean. He told me to be safe."

Dean bursts out laughing. "Oh my God… Oh my God, Cas…"

"What is it?" Cas asks, almost alarmed. "I don't understand."

"It's nothing," Dean answers, half-laughing and half-groaning. "My brother just thinks we're having sex, that's all."

Cas blinks. "That doesn't… make any sense."

Dean claps him on the shoulder and wipes his eyes with a sigh. "You and I know that. Sadly, Sam is a little…" He gestures in a circular motion towards his head and makes a cuckoo whistle.

Cas is still frowning at him though, puzzling it out. "But you're heterosexual."

"Yeah." Dean turns back to his white warty pumpkin and hefts it up. "That's never an obstacle to a big gay imaginary romance, Cas. Sam just wants to marry us off so he and Amelia can take us on vacations to Martha's Vineyard and schedule playdates for our dogs."

"I… see." Cas considers this for a moment and looks over Dean's pumpkin. "I gather that's not what you have in mind for your future."

And maybe it's just the mud under his shoes, but for a second it feels as though the ground shifts underneath Dean, and his eyes are glued to the way Cas's eyes are glued on his pumpkin, the way his mouth is just a little smaller, the way his adam's apple bobs.

And before he can stop himself he says, "You know, my agenda is wide open at this point. But I got you penciled in for the next few years."

Cas raises his eyes to Dean's.

Dean flushes and he stammers, "I mean. I hope that's. If you want."

Cas smiles. "Thank you, Dean. I plan on being your friend for the rest of my life."

And Dean flushes so hard he can feel it along his hairline and he manages to say, "O-okay, cool, that's – that's awesome. I'd like that."

They walk back together towards the checkout barn, trudging through the soft earth past the corn maze and the shrieking children.

"I've never been to a pumpkin patch," Cas comments. "Daphne and I always bought our pumpkins at the store."

Dean shifts the pumpkin in his arms. "You never went as a kid?"

Cas shakes his head. "My family didn't celebrate Halloween. For religious reasons." He smiles. "Daphne thought that was silly. She was much more liberal than them, which I suppose is what I liked about her…" And then he lapses back into silence, a far-off look on his face.

"You wanna talk about her?" Dean asks.

"No," Cas says. "I don't miss her so much these days. Chuck claims it's because we have a surrogate relationship. I'm not sure if I believe him."

Dean stops short. "Wait, what? What the hell does that mean?"

Cas stops as well, gazing at Dean blankly. "Surrogate?"

"Yes!" Dean exclaims, setting down his pumpkin in the dirt. "The part about me renting out my uterus!"

Cas glances up at the sun and pauses. "There was a psychological study conducted in the 1960s, when ethical standards were more lax. The researchers separated baby rhesus monkeys from their mothers and studied their development in various ways."

Dean crosses his arms. "Okaaaay."

"One group of baby monkeys were given fake mothers," Cas continues. "Metal feeders wrapped in pink terrycloth and given a monkey face. The babies could get all the nutrition they needed from these replicas, and they clung to them just like they would a real mother." He looks away from Dean, towards the corn maze and the horizon. "Their findings were surprising."

"What happened?" Dean asks.

Cas presses his lips into a thin line. "The baby monkeys died."

Dean blinks.

Cas meets his eyes again, serious and troubled. "Babies need touch to thrive; they need meaningful interaction. The monkeys clung to their fake mothers and died because no cloth feeder could substitute the care of a real mother. That's a surrogate relationship."

Dean squints. "_What?_" he demands incredulously. "You're saying I'm a monkey puppet?"

"According to Chuck, our friendship acts a substitute for a romantic relationship," Cas elaborates. "We don't feel the need to seek out other company because we have each other, but we still suffer from the lack of a deeper connection that friendship doesn't provide." Cas's mouth turns up at the corner. "Essentially, I'm not dating anyone because you're my work wife."

"Oh, that is such bullshit!" Dean exclaims. "We are not frigging baby Reese's monkeys, and we're _not _surrogates!"

Cas nods. "I told Chuck as much."

"And we don't get out because we're _busy_," Dean rants. "Busy working all the shit jobs that Jody doesn't want to do herself!"

"Definitely," Cas agrees.

Dean picks up his pumpkin again and starts tromping toward the checkout area. "Tell you what, Cas – tonight we're going on the prowl. We'll go down to the watering hole, scope out the talent, make some connections… Show Chuck who's a fuckin' surrogate…"

….

The bar is in full swing for Saturday night. It's a bit of a dive, a dark "pub" with one pool table and a ceiling fan that does little to relieve the humid light-beer scent of every surface and the sticky hardwood floor. Dean's chatting up a blonde grad student named Starla and making some inroads there, but Cas doesn't seem to be having much luck. He just stands by the bar with his whiskey tightly in hand, barely drinking it, his eyes wide and his knuckles white.

When Starla goes to the bathroom, Dean approaches Castiel. "Dude, what's wrong? You're not talking to anyone."

"There's no one to talk to," Cas mutters. "All the other women here are with friends."

Dean sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "C'mon, you just gotta be ballsy, Cas. Look – look at that redhead over there."

In the farthest corner of the bar, a fairly pretty redheaded girl sits with a sour-faced blonde businesswoman, both working on cranberry vodkas.

"I'll come over there with you," Dean says, "and we'll get them a couple drinks, and –"

Suddenly the music on the overhead speakers abruptly changes from unobtrusive country rock to the Allman Brothers Band, the electric bass slicing through conversation with a driving bluesy rhythm.

"Nice," Dean says. "I love this song. Who put this on?" And they both turn to the jukebox and see –

A woman with long dark curls and a round pale face, black leather boots and a jacket to match, one hand on the jukebox and the other sliding down her hip as she rolls her body to the music. The chorus climbs up to full volume and she tosses her hair to the wailing guitar. "_Sometimes I feel/ sometimes I feel/ like I been tiiiiiiiii-ieed to the whippin' post, TIIIIII-ieeed to the whippin' post, TIIIIIIIIII-ieeed to the whippin' post…" _

Dean and Cas swallow in unison.

"_Good lord I feel like I'm dyin'…" _And the woman looks up, and locks eyes with the two of them, and grins.

"Dean," Cas murmurs, "I think she sees us."

She saunters over with a swaggering stride, that dark smile hovering on her face and her brown eyes alight. When she speaks, she speaks with a low voice and a strange drawl, her words clinging to the back of her teeth. "Hello, boys," she greets them. "What's a girl got to do to get a drink around here?"

"I think my friend Cas here might be able to help you out," Dean answers, smiling coolly. He elbows Cas slightly.

"What's your name?" Cas blurts. "I'm Castiel."

She laughs, and for some reason chills run up Dean's spine. "Aren't you just the sweetest little thing!" she says, sliding her hand up his arm and following it hungrily with her eyes. "I'm Meg. And I know you, Castiel. You're the convict who got set loose."

Cas takes a swig of his whiskey and coughs. "Yes. Yes I am."

Meg smiles. "Must be nice to be free bird and all, after all that time in the clink. It must have been…" She runs her hand back down to his elbow. "Real lonely."

Cas keeps his wide eyes trained on her like someone might keep their eyes on a spider in the shower. "Would you like – what do you like to drink?"

Meg cocks her head slightly, and puts her index finger to his lapel. "Surprise me."

There's something about her, but Dean can't quite place it. Something about her is off. Something about the way she talks, and moves, and looks Cas up and down – it's triggering every alarm in his body, and years of experience have taught him to run. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to telegraph this to Cas.

"There you are, Dean!" Starla stumbles over in her wobbly high heels and giggles, then notices Meg. "Oh, hey! Your friend made a friend!"

Meg grins again, sharp-toothed and catlike. "Well, we're not friends yet. But I have a feeling me and Tweety Bird here are gonna get well acquainted."

Cas gulps.

Dean opens his mouth to interject.

"C'mon," Starla says, grabbing Dean's arm before he can think and dragging him towards the center of the floor. "Let's dance!"

….

The night wears on, and Dean manages to cop a feel with Starla in a dim, green pleather booth. The whole time he's dimly aware of Cas and Meg, a blip on his drunken radar. She's got him pinned in a corner booth, straddling his lap with her tongue halfway down his throat and her hands in his hair. He seems to be enjoying himself, or at least reciprocating, and from the way they're grinding together it has to be mutual.

"You okay?" Starla asks. "You seem kinda… spacey."

"I'm fine," Dean responds, tearing his eyes away from Cas. "Got a lot on my mind, that's all."

Starla giggles. "Then let me take it off for you…" And she cups his face in her hands and kisses him eagerly, with more enthusiasm than technique but it's still warm and soft and good.

"Dean."

Their lips part with an audible smack as Dean whips his head up.

Cas is standing there, pink-mouthed and dazed. "I'm leaving with Meg now."

"What?" Dean pushes Starla off and stands up. "Sorry, sweetheart, I need to have a word with my friend here for a second."

Starla pouts. "Don't take too long."

He pulls Cas aside and grabs him by the shoulder, steering him towards a private corner by the men's restroom, and then stops and hisses, "What do you mean you're leaving with her?"

"I'm going to her home," Cas explains, his voice slightly slurring, "to have sexual intercourse."

"Cas, you can't do that!" Dean rubs his temple. "I know you're new to the game, buddy, but you've got to be able to see this chick is crazy."

Cas's face darkens, and his brows furrow into a glower. "Why is she crazy, Dean? Because she likes me?"

"No, it's the way she talks, and the way her eyes don't exactly –" Dean struggles to find the words, and words fail him. "Goddammit, Cas, you've just got to trust me. I've been doing this for years, I know my gut, and my gut tells me she's bad news. I've gotten to the point where I can _smell_ psycho, Cas, and she fucking reeks of it."

Cas's nostrils flare. "And what, exactly, did _I_ smell like when you arrested me, Dean?"

Dean's mouth snaps shut.

His chest clenches tight.

Cas's eyes bore into him, livid and dark. "What scent does Lucas have, Dean? Did you get a whiff?"

Dean drops his hand from Cas's shoulder. He takes a step back.

Cas's mouth tightens. "Dean."

"Touché, Cas," Dean says, smiling bitterly and blinking quickly. "You got me there."

"Dean." Cas steps forward, his face falling from anger into apology. "I shouldn't have…"

"No, no, you… you have every right," Dean says hoarsely. "I'll mind my own business now. You have a nice night."

He walks to the exit of the bar and calls a cab, and goes home and falls into bed with a spinning head and a heavy heart.

….

Dean wakes up in the dark to the creaking of his bedroom door. His eyes can only see blackness, and his thoughts are still clouded with alcohol; the room seems to spin a little, and the glowing red LED of the alarm clock tells him he's only been asleep a couple hours.

A weight settles in on the other side of the bed.

"Cas?" Dean whispers groggily, lifting his head from the pillow. "That you?"

"Yes."

Dean blinks, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He can see Cas's black shape, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're not asleep, are you?"

"No."

The silence is like a blanket, thick and cottony.

"What happened?" Dean asks. "Did I throw off your game? I'm sorry…"

"I tried," Cas whispers. "I tried and I couldn't."

"You tried… what?"

Cas doesn't say anything.

"Oh."

Cas's shape lowers slightly, his head hanging down.

"S'okay, Cas. Happens to the best of us. 'Sides, she probably had herpes."

"What if I can't… ever?" Cas asks softly. "What if I'm…"

Dean watches him for a moment, propped up on his elbow in the dark.

Then he reaches over with a groan and pulls back the covers. "C'mon," he says, patting the mattress. "Get in here."

Cas gets under the covers, and Dean sidles up next him and flops onto his stomach, draping one arm over Cas's warm solid chest. He sighs. "You're not broken, Cas. Okay? Don't you ever believe that. You've dealt with so much more shit than most people can imagine and you're not in the loony bin, so consider yourself a success."

"Maybe I should be," Cas mutters.

Dean snorts. "If you're not sane, I don't think the rest of us have any hope." He hesitates. "I'm sorry for what I said. In the bar."

Cas reaches up a hand to his chest and pats Dean's arm. "It's alright. I know you meant well."

They lie there in the dark, listening to the sound of their breathing in and out. The two of them fall asleep together like that, clinging to the only comfort they have, and Dean dreams of small monkeys and pink terrycloth.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _My dearest readers. I owe you all an apology for the lateness of this update. My winter quarter just started up this week, and I spent too much time last week trying to catch up with friends and family while I could. Now you've been made to suffer and PROBABLY you've already given up on me for dead. I'm sorry. I appreciate all your fantastic reviews and I look forward to them with an intensity that borders on manic._

_If you can bring yourself to review this chapter despite my tardiness, your reward will be JENSEN ACKLES' NEW BABY. THAT HE'S TOTALLY HAVING. THAT THEY JUST ANNOUNCED TODAY THAT DANNEEL IS PREGNANT WITH. WHO IS GOING TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BABY ON THE WHOLE FUCKING PLANET AND OH MY GOD, THINK OF THE PICTURES OF JENSEN WITH THE BABY AND OH MY JESUS LORD AND SAVIOR, MISHA AND JENSEN AND JARED ALL HAVE CHILDREN WITHIN 3 YEARS OF EACH OTHER AND NOW THE KIDS CAN PLAY TOGETHER AND BECOME BEST FRIENDS AND GROW UP TOGETHER AND GET MARRIED IF IT'S A GIRL OR GAY MARRIED IF IT'S A BOY AND I THINK I'M GONNA HYPERVENTILATE._

_That is the reward._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**November**

"Of course I _want _to go, Dean, I'm the one who suggested it. But I've got a trial coming up, and I really don't have the time to spare –"

"Please Sam, I need to get away," Dean begs. "I'm getting fucking – fucking _claustrophobic_. I just need like five minutes of fresh fucking air!"

"What, trouble in paradise?" Sam asks. He's talking to Dean via Bluetooth while driving on the freeway at rush hour, and he's not exactly sympathetic. "I guess the honeymoon's over, and now he's just the old ball and chain…"

"It's not funny!" Dean barks. "I'm so sick of his voice I could – ugh. Look. Don't get me wrong, I love Cas, he's a great guy, we all know this. But I come home and he's there, I go for a drive and he's there, I go to work and he's there! We're shopping together, running together –"

"Sleeping together," Sam pipes in.

Dean ignores him. " – and if I have to spend one more minute in this goddamn house with him, I'm going to shoot him and then shoot myself for shooting Cas. So you cannot, CANNOT bail on me."

"Alright, alright," Sam concedes. "I'll go to Croctopus 5 with you this weekend."

…

Saturday rolls around as slowly as possible, creaking into place with molasses speed, and Dean's frantic to get out. The minute the clock hits 5:30 he dashes to the coatrack by the door and prepares to get the fuck out of Dodge.

"Where are you going?" Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs on his coat. "To the movies. With Sam."

Cas walks to the coatrack by the door and reaches for his jacket.

"No, wait –" Dean puts his hand out and licks his lips. "You wouldn't like it. It's Croctopus 5."

Cas frowns at him, his hand still on his jacket.

"I told you about this," Dean says, growing desperate. "Cheesy horror movie, genetic mutation, excessive violence? Flagrant nudity? It's just awful."

"Then why do you want to go?" Cas asks.

"I like the awful," Dean insists. "Awful flicks are my, my_ joie de vivre_."

Cas's eyes narrow.

"Yes, I_ remember_ I banned French in this house," Dean exclaims, exasperated. "So sue me!"

"_Vous êtes un xénophobe_," Cas mutters.

"Ey!" Dean points a warning finger at him. "No call for that kind of language!"

Cas sighs and lowers his hand from his jacket. "Just admit it, Dean. You don't want me to come with."

Dean tries on his best guiltless smile and protests weakly, "Thaaaaat's not… true."

Cas glares pointedly.

Dean drops the act. "Okay, maybe I just want an afternoon with Sam. Do I have your _permission_, Ms. Goodwin, or are you gonna look at me like I pissed in your Cheerios all week?"

Cas continues glaring, but says evenly, "You don't need my permission."

Dean sighs and opens the door with a heavy eye roll. As he starts to walk out, he calls over his shoulder, "I'll be home soon, dear. Don't let the roast get too dry."

"I'm not making a roast," Cas says to his back. "It's fettucine night."

Dean stops, lowers his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose for a minute with his other hand still on the knob.

"Oh," Cas says flatly. "You were being sarcastic."

Dean looks up at the sky and groans under his breath, "_Fresh air._"

"Close the door," Cas says. "You're letting the heat out."

Dean closes the door behind him and drives away, muttering to himself about the walls closing in on him and his easy access to arms and ammunition.

…..

"It's like I'm a little stress ball and he's just _squeeeezing_ the shit out of me," Dean says, illustrating with his clenched fist.

"So you keep saying," Sam sighs. "Now shut up, the previews are about to start."

Dean shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and scoffs at the screen. "There'f no prefewf, Fam. It'f ftill trivia." He swallows his considerable mouthful and takes a big gulp of his root beer. "Anyway, it's like when we were kids and the two of us had to share a room. You know? We used to fight constantly. You put two rats in a cage and they'll chew each other's legs off. I just don't think humans are meant to live in such close proximity."

Sam frowns at him, perplexed. "Dean, rats live together all the time."

Dean glances back at him, taking another handful of greasy, buttery goodness. "Nah, I heard about it. It's science. Maybe it was like… six rats in one cage. Something. Point is, they get overcrowded, they start lashing out."

Sam snorts. "You can't just validate a claim by saying 'it's science.'"

"Sure I can." Dean flashes a grin. "It's science."

Sam laughs.

Dean blinks and stares at Sam. "What was that?"

"What?" Sam asks, scooping up popcorn with one of his freakishly large hands.

"You laughed," Dean accuses. "You laughed at one of my jokes. You never laugh at my jokes."

Sam shrugs and chomps on his popcorn. "It was funny."

But Sam never thought his jokes were funny before. And the wheels in Dean's head start turning and he thinks it over and he looks back on the last few months, and he realizes: he and Sam have been getting along so much better since they started living in separate houses.

It's definitely the rat thing.

"And I'll tell you something else," Dean continues, pulling a flask out of jacket pocket and popping off the lid of his root beer. "This dry spell is just killing me. I think it's part of the reason I'm so on edge right now. Seriously, Sam, my balls have never been bluer." He unscrews the flask cap, pours a liberal splash of whiskey in his soda and pops the lid back on.

"First of all, I don't want to know about your balls," Sam says, ripping open his licorice package, "and second of all, your definition of a 'dry spell' is what other people would call the monsoon season."

"It's been two months!" Dean exclaims. "You gotta admit that's a long time for me."

"Well, go out and pick up some women, then," Sam suggests.

Dean gives him a flatly unamused look. "Wow, Sammy. I can't believe I didn't think of that."

Sam just rolls his eyes and eats his licorice.

"How're things with you and Amelia?" Dean asks. "You guys must be getting cabin fever, too."

"Not really," Sam says. "I work such long hours at the new firm, and when she pulls swing shift at the shelter, some weeks we hardly even see each other."

"But are you guys, you know –" Dean jumps his eyebrows up and down – "regular?"

Sam frowns in confusion. "I can't tell if you're asking about my sex life or my bowel movements."

Dean sighs and throws a hand up in the air. "Work with me, Sammy, work with me. Of course I'm talking about sex!"

"You know, the only thing I want to discuss with you _less_ than your balls is my balls," Sam snaps. He hunches into his chair and angrily bites into his licorice.

Dean watches him for a moment. "What's going on?"

The lights start to go down in the theater, and Sam mutters, "Nothing, Dean. None of your business."

Explosions fly across the screen. _This Christmas_, the smoky-voiced narrator booms, _you'd better watch out… _

"Of course it's my business," Dean whispers. "I'm your brother."

Sam's hand tightens on his licorice package, audibly crinkling the cellophane wrapping. He stares at the screen with a clenched jaw, a muscle along his neck twitching.

A car screeches along a bridge and flips over the edge, engulfed in a blazing inferno. _You'd better not cry…_

Dean takes another long drink of his spiked root beer.

Sam swallows.

_Cuz Santa Claus… is GOING…_ A second car squeals to a smoking halt, and a musclebound man in a pair of red pants and a white wifebeater emerges from the driver seat, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. … _to TOWN._

"Whenever you wanna talk," Dean mutters, "just let me know."

Sam takes another handful of popcorn and keeps his eyes on the gunfire.

…..

The movie is excellent, full of gore and quack science and bouncing busty women, and when they emerge from the theater the sky has darkened to a spangled navy blue. The November air snaps at their skin and the two brothers hurry to the car, twisting anxiously at the heater dial and breathing into hands. Sam drops him off at his front porch and they wave goodbye hastily, each pretending not to care too much about it.

Dean walks to the door and swings it open with a dramatic flourish. "Honey, I'm ho-ome!" he calls out.

There's no answer, but then he wasn't really expecting one. The house is dark, shadows wrapped around each corner.

Dean tugs off his coat and hangs it up, scuffing his boots on the doormat and walking towards the living room. "Cas, I brought you back a prize," he hollers. "Half a bag of gummy worms. Also I'm a _liiittle_ buzzed, so…"

Cas is sitting on the couch, watching the some inane show about home makeovers. He turns his head and looks at Dean with an expression of profound disgust.

Dean stumbles backward and knocks into a nearby lamp, nearly toppling it.

"We have a job," Cas says with a flinty harsh voice, "and you're intoxicated."

"Job?" Dean rights the lamp and tries to ignore the cold sweat along his collar, the way he wants to shrink away from Cas's gaze and die. He juts his chin out. "What job?"

"We're supposed to tail Yuri tonight." Cas stands up and turns off the television. "Now we can't."

"I'm not drunk," Dean retorts. "I'm good to drive."

Cas's nostrils flare. "I won't allow you to conduct an investigation under the influence."

"Fine!" Dean shouts, tossing the bag of gummy worms on the couch. "We'll fuckin' tail Yuri tomorrow! No skin off my nose, Cas! Not everything is a fucking federal case!"

And then Cas sets his jaw and steps forward, bringing his words down to a low, grating rumble. "Don't raise your voice to me," he growls.

Dean steps right in his space, his chest pushed forward, his head cocked high and just a few inches taller than Cas's. "That an order?" he challenges.

He can hear Cas breathing, can see the flush of anger rising up along his neck and jawline, can taste the copper electric tension crackling in between them, and for one second he has this bizarre thought

_grab_

and his hand twitches forward and stops short, invisible leash, his instincts on a tight rein and chomping at the bit.

"I have tolerated your bullshit for a long time now," Cas growls. "Civility is the least you owe me."

"Yeah, well, this ain't Hotel California," Dean snarls. "You can check out any time you like."

Cas's eyes widen.

There's a knot in Dean's chest the size of a fist, right where his heart should be, and it's twisting painfully in his lungs and his stomach and his ribs.

Cas steps back, his face wiped blank, his eyes empty. "You think I should leave."

Dean's hand lurches forward again and falls back, puppet on a string. "That's not what I said."

"This arrangement was always temporary," Cas says, hollow and inflectionless. He turns to walk away. "I'm not surprised that you –"

"_Cas!_" And Dean breaks free of his logical brain and grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around, breathless and panicked. "Don't leave! Fuck! I'm sorry, okay? Are you happy?"

And Cas's face is all wounded and broken, and he says, "Dean..."

"I'm sorry I'm such a shithead, I'm sorry I never clean, I'm sorry I let the recycling pile up," Dean says frantically. "I'm sorry I keep fucking up, I'm sorry I fucked up your life, I'm sorry for goddamn _everything_ Cas just please don't leave me."

Cas looks torn, and he glances away from Dean's pleading face. "Dean, maybe it's better if we don't live together, perhaps we're too –"

"You know how many times I let Sam walk out?" Dean demands. "You can ask him, Cas, he musta left five or six times because he couldn't take it anymore, and I didn't stop him. I didn't beg him to stay. I never beg, Cas, and I'm begging you now – please. I didn't mean it." His hands squeeze on Cas's shoulders, firm and unyielding. His pulse is pounding in his wrists and his throat and his mouth, and he feels the room and the world and universe spinning out of control around him.

Cas still won't meet his eyes, looking off to the side, silent and his mouth twisted down at the corner. Dean's heart beats in his fingertips. "Cas. Say something."

Cas finally raises his eyes to Dean's, silent and dark and large.

Then he says, "I put mushrooms in your fettucine. I know you hate them."

And Dean says "_Fuck_" and yanks Cas in and kisses him.

He doesn't think. He doesn't stop himself short. He doesn't know why he's doing it but he kisses Cas with every fucking ounce of his body and then some, with all the thirst of a cracked dry desert and a dying man, gasping against his mouth and plunging back in for more, dying, drowning, drowned, and Cas kisses back like he's never been more alive, panting hot on Dean's skin, until Cas drags himself backward and pushes them apart with one hand.

"Explain," Cas gasps. His black hair is mussed every which way and his cheeks are pink.

"I don't know," Dean says helplessly. "I'm drunk."

Cas frowns. "You said you weren't drunk."

"I lied," Dean says.

Cas's cheeks go even pinker, and he says, "Was it to keep me here?"

"No," Dean tells him truthfully. "I didn't plan it."

And Cas gazes at him with something hidden in his eyes, and he says slowly, "It's not a good idea."

Dean's face burns. "… Yeah. Probably not."

"And I don't… I don't really… understand it…" Cas flushes and he looks at the ground. "This is all very confusing to me."

Dean snorts. "Preaching to the choir." This whole night, in fact, is confusing as shit and Dean feels like his mind has fallen out the back of his head and into Alice and Wonderland, and he really must be drunk because nothing makes the remotest shred of sense. He's not gay. Not like that. He just isn't. He's never kissed a man, never wanted to kiss a man, and until moments ago he'd never even considered kissing Cas, Castiel, his buddy, his best friend, and there's no possible explanation. Except… He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "You know, maybe it's because my dry spell, wires got crossed…"

Cas tilts his head. "Dry spell?"

"Two months," Dean informs him. "Two months without getting laid. It's scrambling my brains, Cas."

Cas stares at him for a long minute.

"What?" Dean asks.

"I was in prison," Cas reminds him. "For six and a half years."

Dean's mouth snaps shut. Finally he stammers, "I – I can't believe I forgot."

Cas shrugs. "I enjoy forgetting."

The slick of alcohol on Dean's brain darkens and sours, guilt and shame and embarrassment slipping down the back of his throat, and for a moment it's almost too much to overcome. He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders very briefly if this is the part where he curls up and sinks into the earth forever.

But then, he swallows down the churning horrible feelings into his stomach and says, "Wanna eat dinner?"

Cas nods.

They eat fettucine together in a casual awkwardness, neither capable of looking at the other for too long. After dinner they lapse into the usual routine, with Castiel reading one of his biography books and Dean watching the game, sneaking surreptitious sidelong glances every so often. All thought of pursuing Yuri is forgotten. And Dean isn't really watching the game, his eyes are just trained on the screen while his mind races, spinning fast-forward like cassette tape, stopping and rewinding and replaying Cas's mouth on his and the way it felt warm and good and unreal, and pausing on each frame and knowing it's a once-in-a-lifetime, unrepeatable play, too dangerous to replicate, impossible to duplicate, and he'll keep rewinding and rewinding until the tape wears thin and the images go blurry and dark.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _Okay, in order._

_1) I'm sorry this is late like last week's. My grandmother passed away and her funeral was on Friday. I'm doing fine - it wasn't entirely unexpected, and we had time to prepare ourselves - but obviously, it doesn't put one in a fanfic mood. I also had to miss class to go to the funeral, so I'm a little behind on everything right now._

_2) I love you people. Thank you for your reviews. It's right around this point in a story that reviews usually tend to drop off, and I'm hoping that won't happen with you guys because you're so awesome. I really do appreciate you. Your reward for reviewing this week is that I will eat a cookie in your name, and then send all the happiness derived from that cookie to you via psychic vibrations. _

_3) I actually made chocolate chip cookies tonight. They are delicious. Here, have one! *gives cookie*_

_4) This chapter is extra short, but I figured you would rather have a short chapter now than a longer one much later. I hope you enjoy it. _

_Up, up, and away! _

* * *

Dean wakes up, and for one remarkably peaceful second he is aware of nothing but the soft warmth of his down comforter and the hazy morning light trickling down through his bedroom curtains. Everything is cozy and yielding and exceptionally good.

Then he remembers the previous night.

He groans and shoves his face into his pillow, hoping that he can maybe smother himself and save himself the embarrassment of living. Strangely enough, it's not the kissing part that makes his stomach hurt. No, it's the memory of Cas barely mentioning his desire to leave and the way Dean practically fell prostrate at his feet, begging him to stay. The sickening way he whimpered until Cas gave in. His desperation and neediness and anxiety and just fucking _patheticness_.

He sucks in a mouthful of pillow and squeezes the other side with his fists.

When he finally rolls his sorry ass out from under the covers and out of bed, his feet land on something soft.

Cas grunts in surprise.

"Aw, shit, sorry!" Dean tumbles back into bed and rolls over to the other side. "Jesus, sorry Cas!"

Cas just makes a displeased noise from the floor.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a moment and collects himself, taking a mental assessment of the situation. "You okay?"

"I am alive," Cas groans.

Dean rubs a hand over his head and sighs. "Close enough."

He can hear Cas getting up from the floor, cracking his neck, grunting at the stiffness in his back.

"Hey," Dean says, staring at the carpet. "About last night…."

Cas is silent. Waiting.

"… I kinda freaked out on you." Dean scratches his elbow and feels the heat creeping up his neck. "But I want you to know that… you don't have to stay. If you don't want to."

Cas doesn't say anything.

"I mean, of course I want you around," Dean continues, "but we don't have to live together to be friends. You know? We'd still be pals. So if you're feeling a little, uh, cramped, don't. Don't feel like you have to put up with it on my account. I'll understand."

There is a long minute, and then Cas says, "You send very mixed messages."

Dean groans and stands up to face him. "I know, I know, I – last night, I didn't want you to storm out," he explains. "I wasn't thinking, I was just – reacting, and now I've thought about out it and I'm not here to Kathy Bates you, and if you want to go you should be able to go."

Cas stares at him with a blank, completely confused look on his face. "And the kissing?" he asks. "How does that factor in?"

Dean's face flashes hot and he clears his throat. "Well. That was me getting a little overworked. And… " He tries a weak smile. "Yet another reason you should feel free to go if you need to."

Cas just keeps staring with that consternated look, completely bewildered.

Dean wipes his hand across his mouth and attempts to be sincere. "Look, Cas, I. I… fuck, how do I say this…" He closes his eyes and feels himself balancing on the edge of a steep, steep fall.

He backs away from the edge.

"… I don't know," he concludes lamely. "I don't know what came over me."

Cas's bafflement is almost concern now, turned focused and deep. "Perhaps we should talk to Chuck about what happened. He might have some insight."

"_Or_," Dean suggests, "we could never talk about it again, ever, at all. Just put it –" he makes a sweeping motion with his hands – "aaaalll behind us."

Cas looks skeptical.

"I'm hungry," Dean says. "Let's go out to breakfast."

"You really should see Chuck," Cas says. "You could do with some therapy."

Dean walks past him to the bathroom and snorts. "Sure. Like I'm gonna go talk to _your_ shrink about my problems. I don't need to give him any more ammunition."

They get dressed and get ready to go, and it's just as Dean is grabbing his keys that they hear the wheezy growl of an unmuffled engine outside.

They glance at each other, and Cas opens the door.

It's a beat-up Ford Pinto that has rolled up in their driveway, peeling paint and gray doors that don't match the olive green body. It looks ugly as sin and it sounds that way too, and lounging in ripped pleather interior with the window rolled down is a woman with dark curly hair, and rasping out of the speakers and leaking out of the car is Allman Brothers screaming

"_Like I been TIIIIIII-ieed to the whippin' post/ TIIIIIIIIIIIII-Iiiiied to the whippin' post/ TIIIIIIIIIED to the whippin' post…"_

She steps out of the car, chunky heels and tight black pants and aviator sunglasses.

"Cas," Dean growls.

"I don't know," Cas whispers. "I didn't give her my address."

"Howdy, fellas," Meg drawls. She pushes the sunglasses up into her hair and smirks. "Long time no see."

"What are you doing here?" Dean demands.

Meg looks calmer than that night at the bar, more focused and keen. "You know, it was pretty hard to track down Tweety Bird here." She fixes Cas with a sidelong glance. "No one seems to know where you are. Even your lawyer came down with a nasty case of amnesia. But the sheriff here…" Her eyes flick back to Dean, and her smile widens. "He's a regular community fixture."

Cas is frowning hard, even for him. "Why did you track me down?"

She rolls her eyes. "You never gave me your number, sweetheart. How else was I supposed to get in touch?"

Cas's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly leave his face.

"You know," Dean says, a little too aggressively, "you are _really _bad at one night stands."

She smirks. Her dark brown eyes gleam. "Don't worry, honey," she says, twining her arm through Cas's. "I'll bring him back before curfew."

Cas steps back and removes himself from her touch, still too shocked to compose himself. "I don't – I'm not going," he stammers. "I'm going to breakfast. With Dean."

Meg sighs and shakes her head softly. "So cute," she murmurs, "yet so slow." She pulls a business card out of her pocket and slips it into his hand. "Give me a call, Tweety. I'll be waiting."

Cas and Dean watch her warily as she walks back to her car, roars the engine to life and screeches away, driving like a bat out of hell.

"You gonna call her?" Dean asks.

Cas stares at the card in his hand. "I don't know."

"Mmm." Dean gazes off at the empty road. "She is kinda ugly, though."

Cas frowns at him.

"Just… you know, her face." Dean makes a circular motion around his face. "Sort of an ugly face. With that – chin. Very ugly chin."

Cas's frown knots into a glower of disapproval.

"I'm just saying," Dean protests, "you can do a lot better. Because she's ugly. Very ugly. And kinda faaaa_okay _I'll shut up now. Let's go to breakfast."

…..


	9. Chapter 9

A/N:_** Disclaimer: I am very low on sleep. Somehow this author's note happened**._

_Children. Children. Come now, children, Babushka has more story for you. Babushka type many long hour, she make story for you._

_What? You no time? You no have time for Babushka story?_

_Your Babushka, she never sleep. She type many long night, clicking and clacking, deleting, spacing, so many letters – too many letters to count. She never sleep. She never quit. She hears friends outside calling, "Babushka, Babushka, we have present for you and cake," and she say, "No. No cake. My children, they are wanting story. Babushka must type."_

_But you no have time. Is okay. Go. Go to dance party with Justin boy. Go to boy with pants that no fit and girl with no clothes on. Go have fun party. Drink many alcohol. No read Babushka story. Babushka, she is old and soon will die. Then you can go party and meet many boy with tattoo and stripe hat. Babushka will no bother._

_Oh, you want to be reading story?_

_Come, children. Come sit by Babushka. Babushka, she has a story for her children…_

* * *

It's another week of all-nighter stakeouts in the freezing dark before they finally get a clear shot of Yuri in the act. Dean and Cas are huddled together on a Cloverdale apartment rooftop at 4 am, bundled all in black, peering over the ledge at a dank icy alleyway.

Yuri's pacing down below, rubbing his hands together and muttering to himself. He's a large black man, always well dressed, never appropriate for the situations he seems to find himself in. He's a suspected middle man, a fence. He buys the stolen goods and sells them to clients who don't ask too many questions, and tonight he's waiting in a dark alley in a wool coat with a car Dean's willing to bet is chock full of ripped-off stereos and mismatched jewelry.

"C'mon," Dean mutters, his breath clouding in the clear night cold. "Who the fuck are you waiting for?" He's been awake so long he's blazed past tired and straight into numb and nauseous.

A silver Mercedes rolls into the alleyway, exhaust rolling along the pavement behind it.

Cas jerks up his camera in excitement, adjusting the lens and focusing on the license plates. Dean can't help but grab his arm and whisper, "Fuck fuck fuck yes this is fucking _it!_"

A man steps out of the car languidly, all style and grace. He's not like any of the lowlifes they've seen before. He's blonde with a short-trimmed beard and he approaches Yuri like he's in charge.

Cas's camera quietly clicks.

Yuri says something to him in a low voice. The other man sighs and pulls package out of his pocket, wrapped in some kind of shiny plastic and roughly the size of a book. He waggles it, as if to say, "Satisfied?"

Dean and Cas are barely breathing. Dean's grip on Cas tightens. Cas is taking pictures as fast as he can click the button.

Yuri pulls out a pocketknife and cuts into the package, dabs a finger in and tastes.

This is so much fucking bigger than they expected.

Yuri seems to approve of the other man's goods, and he pulls out a roll of cash tied with a rubber band. The man pockets the money, clasps his hands together and bows sardonically, a smirking gesture of thanks. They exchange a few more words and the blonde man gets back in his Mercedes and drives away; Yuri tucks his new purchase into the folds of his jacket and gets in his nondescript beige sedan, pulling out of the alleyway and into the frozen night.

"Holy – holy shit!" Dean stammers. "Cas, did you get all of that?"

"Yes." Cas's face is flushed pink with the cold and the rush, and he zips the camera back into its case with stumbling fingers. "I knew the night vision lens was a good investment."

Dean unscrews his Thermos of now-tepid coffee and takes a gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and staggers into a standing position. "We got dirt! We got some genuine fucking dirt, Cas! Jody better give us a goddamn _raise_! That was – that had to be a kilo! This has gotta be the easiest drug bust in the history of the county. "

Cas attempts to get up and groans, clutching his calf. "My leg is asleep…"

"Here…" Dean grabs his arm and hoists him up, claps him on the shoulder, grins. "Good job, Cas. Great job."

Cas holds onto him for support and leans into him, eyes sparkling bright and his breath steaming fast between them. He smiles back at Dean, and then he… he sort of sways forward…

Dean freezes, his hand tight on Cas's shoulder, his body rigid and his heartbeat in the roof of his mouth.

Cas's chin leans up, and then the rest of him pauses, suspended in mid-thought, his lips slightly parted and his eyes locked on Dean's.

Their breath mingles in the air, white and dense.

"Thank you," Cas says, that deep gravelly voice.

Dean knows this is the moment, the minute, the hour of judgment and at this moment, this minute, this late hour he doesn't really care what exactly he wants or why he wants it. He just suddenly understands with startling clarity that he _does_ want it.

"Cas," he says. He leans forward a little, lowers his eyes a little. He tilts his head down just a little bit…

Suddenly Cas ducks his head, clears his throat and gazes at the ground, sways back away from Dean, and maybe this isn't the moment or minute or the hour after all.

"I'm beat," Dean sighs. "Let's go home."

…

They sleep through most of the next day. It's not until two mornings later that they manage a celebratory breakfast at Denny's. Dean and Cas sit in a booth near a window, where the morning sunlight can warm the Formica tabletop and their menus cast long shadows across its smooth white surface. Cas studies the menu seriously despite the fact that he orders the same thing every time: pancakes and bacon. No, he's not content to just order the usual – he has to read each description carefully and weigh the decision, inspect each appetizing photograph, mentally calculate the value for price of each entrée and side.

Dean watches him and smiles to himself.

"What can I get you boys this morning?" The waitress is young woman, pretty and thin, a little too thin. A little worn around the edges and shadowed in the eyes. Too many angles to her arms, her hips, her face; dyed red hair that makes her skin look pallid. She smiles, though, and the smile is wide and genuine. Her nametag reads "Elizabeth."

There's something familiar about her, something Dean can't place. His focus darts from point to point on her body, the jut of her shoulders and the curl of her ear as he stammers, "I'll, uh, I'll have the Lumberjack Slam and a coffee, thanks."

She jots the order down on her small white notepad and turns to Cas. "And you?"

Cas gives a last, lingering glance to his menu and folds it closed with solemn gravity. He pauses, and decides. "I'll have the pancakes, with a side of bacon."

She scribbles. "And can I getcha something to drink?"

He's seen her somewhere, he's sure of it. Dean _knows_ he knows her but he doesn't know how, and the name Elizabeth isn't ringing any bells.

"Coffee, thank you," Cas says.

She nods, and shoots a quick smile at Dean. "Great. I'll have your orders right up." And she walks away briskly, and it's as she turns to the kitchen at a fast clip with her skirt clinging to her knees that he realizes –

_Candide. _

"Cas," Dean says in a strangled tone. "Cas, do you recognize our waitress?"

Cas unfolds his napkin and arranges it on his lap. "No."

"She's one of –" Dean puts his hands on the table and leans in, lowering his voice. "You remember the night we first met, the first night we went out? When we picked up the ladies?"

Cas stares at him. "You mean the prostitutes."

"_Of course_ I mean –" Dean cuts himself off and reduces himself to a whisper. "_She's one of them. She's Candide." _

Cas frowns for a moment, then seems to put the pieces together. "Candy. Yes, I can see the resemblance. She's changed her hair color."

Then the waitress returns from the kitchen with two mugs and a pot of joe, and Dean makes a zipping gesture over his mouth that he can only hope Cas will understand.

"Here you are," Elizabeth says, pouring the steaming coffee, the tantalizing smell wafting upwards. "I'll have your food out here in just a few minutes." A lock of hair escapes from behind her ear and she pushes it back with a hasty gesture, and the sleeve of her sweater rucks up and briefly flashes the underside of her arm, an old bruise there, faded brown and yellow.

She looks tired.

Maybe that's why Dean asks, "How's your day going, Elizabeth?"

She freezes momentarily, and then blinks, recovers. A short chuckled breath escapes her and she replies, "You know, I haven't been asked that in a long while."

Dean gives her a sympathetic half-smile. "That bad, huh?"

"It's been a long morning," she sighs. She shakes her head. "It's been a long year." Then she blinks quickly and grabs the coffee pot and sucks in her breath. "I'm sorry! I don't know what I'm – Sorry about that."

Dean's throat hurts just looking at her.

Cas is looking at her closely now, too. Only, he's not so good at the "subtle covert gaze" part. His gaze is more of laser beam that shoots into your insides and cuts you open and slices until your beating heart lays bare and then apologizes to you for all the blood.

She's starting to notice.

"No worries," Dean says hastily. "I'm the one who asked. How long you been working here?"

Elizabeth bites her lip and thinks back. "Bout a month, give or take. Why do you ask?"

"My friend and I –" he gestures to Cas, who's still staring at her like she's a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a religious artifact, damn him – "we're regulars, but we've never seen you around."

"I don't usually work mornings. I'm covering a shift," she explains. "My daughter got sick and I had to swap."

Dean swallows and tilts his head. "You have a daughter?"

She smiles again. "Sure do. Eleven years old and smarter than her teachers."

_Eleven_. This girl looks like she's twenty-five.

"If you need anything else, I'll be bringing around refills." She leaves them with their coffee.

They drink in silence. When the food comes, they eat fast, the deafening clinking of silverware drowning out all possible conversation. There's a quiet understanding that they need to get out as fast as possible, and Dean appreciates that he doesn't have to say it out loud. When Elizabeth returns with the check, she brings them each extra peppermints "because you're so sweet."

Dean leaves her a tip that's bigger than the bill.

They walk briskly to the car, and Dean rolls his shoulders, trying to roll the prickly feeling off his skin. Cas is glancing back at the restaurant as they walk, perturbed.

"Why did you do that?" Cas asks.

"What?" Dean asks. "Leave her a tip?" He opens the door and slides into the passenger seat with a grunt. "Common courtesy, Cas."

Cas slides in next to him and looks at him sidelong. "Do you think she wants it?"

Dean closes his hand on the gear shift. "What do you mean? Course she wants a tip. Waitresses live off of them."

"That was more than normal," Cas counters. "Much more."

"I dunno, I guess – I felt like –" Dean struggles with the words, struggles with the truth. "It felt wrong, talking to her, she's been having a tough time and she has a daughter… It felt like, maybe I, maybe when I, I hired her… maybe I did her wrong." He swallows. "I mean, shit, she was fucking touched because I asked how her day was going, and I didn't even – I didn't even ask her that before I –"

The rest of his thoughts choke into wordlessness, and he just presses his mouth tight and holds them inside.

Cas's head bows slightly, the barest nod.

"So," Dean concludes, "I guess I thought I owed her."

"You've already paid her once. Do you think she wants your money?" Cas's voice is firm, even and measured. "Or did it simply make you feel better to leave it?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and smacks his hand on the steering wheel.

"Shit, Cas!" he shouts. "I don't know what you want me to say! I was trying to do the right thing!"

Cas doesn't say anything.

Dean revs up the engine and throws her into gear, and he tears out of the parking lot more angrily than necessary. They drive without speaking, Dean keeping his eyes steadfastly on the road.

After awhile he finally says, "I can feel you staring at me, you know."

Cas just keeps staring.

"Everybody's fucking coming out of the woodwork lately," Dean grumbles. "Meg, Candide. Next I'm gonna blow a red light and hit fucking Yuri."

The city passes by them and tumbles down into ragged rural residential, lawns unkempt and acres untilled. A patch of horses here and there, little brown curiosities shrinking in the side mirror.

"I know what you're trying to do," Dean says. "You're trying to draw fucking parallels. Well, that isn't gonna work. This isn't the same thing, at all, whatsoever."

And Cas simply asks, "How is it different?"

The houses make way for pine trees, spindly and tall and green. Their long shadows stripe across the two-lane highway and flash like camera shutters across the windshield, quick flickers of darkness faster than you can blink, cutting through the yellow morning light and reducing the world to flutters of shade.

"Everything about it is different," Dean insists. "You and I – the things we've done, the people we are, it doesn't even compare."

"You think you owe me."

"I don't think it. I know it."

The forest gathers tall around the highway, dark and frozen and fey, shutting out the slanted sunlight and trapping them in gray cool stillness. The engine rumbles in the floorboards and the wind whips over the hood of the car.

"You saved my life," Cas says quietly. "Why isn't that enough?"

Dean glances at him quickly.

He's looking out the window now, his face drawn and closed off.

"Because _I'm_ the reason it needed saving," Dean says. "Nothing will ever be enough. Nothing I can ever do will ever be enough. But… "

Cas's eyes dart to him again, tense and sharp.

"… If you want me to stop trying, I'll stop." There's a twist in Dean's gut as he says the words. "I owe you that too."

He waits for an answer, almost afraid to look over but too afraid not to.

Cas puts his hand to the armrest of the door, and Dean sees his hand is ever so slightly trembling. "I don't know what I want," he whispers. "I just want… you."

That's when Dean makes a decision.

They drive noiselessly for ten more minutes until the tires of the Impala crunch on gravel, and Dean slowly turns into the public access of Lake Madeleine.

He parks the car.

"So," he says. "This is it."

Cas turns his face to Dean, wide-eyed and confused.

Dean's blood is rushing into his face, tingling in his fingers, racing through his veins. "Here are your options. Option one, you stay in the car. If you do that, then in about 30 seconds I'm going to try something really stupid. I'm talking bad timing, bad location, bad decisions all around. Or, option two." He forces himself to stay casual, to keep from rushing his words. "You get out of the car. We take a walk around the lake. We drive back into town and pretend like this conversation never took place."

Cas is frozen, trapped, one hand on the door and the other on the seat.

Dean's entire body is electrified, his skin gathering into goosebumps and crawling up the back of his neck. "It's stay or go, Cas. No in-betweens."

"What are you going to do?" Cas asks. His adam's apple bobs and his nostrils flare.

"Kiss you," Dean says, just as his lips start to feel numb. He briefly wonders if he's experiencing cardiac arrest.

Cas's fingers tighten on the seat, digging into the well-worn leather.

Dean slides closer, and his head feels light, almost dizzy. There's not enough air in his lungs. Definitely cardiac arrest. "You got about 5 seconds left. Anything you wanna say?"

Cas swallows again, and he opens his mouth to say something, and instead he just sucks in a breath and looks at Dean with darting eyes, terrified, scared shitless.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Me too."

And then he leans forward, close enough to feel the way Cas isn't letting out that breath, close enough to smell that mint bodywash and wood aftershave, and he starts to close his eyes –

And then he feels a hand on his neck, sliding along the collar. "Dean," Cas breathes, "wait."

Dean opens his eyes.

Cas is gazing at him with those cutting beams again, so much more painful than ever before.

"What?" Dean whispers.

"Don't," Cas says. The corner of his mouth twists down, and his face makes every part of Dean want to die. "Don't tip me."

_Click click_ goes the door handle_,_ then_ creaaaak, thump. _Cas is out of the car and standing with his back to Dean, walking down to the public access, sitting down on the bench where he once sat months ago.

Dean sits in the Impala for a long excruciating minute, collecting the broken bits of himself back together. He gets out into the cold frigid air and walks down to the bench, kicking at the gravel as he goes and shoving his hands into his pockets.

He stands next to Cas, looking out at the frosty lake.

"It's not like that," Dean says.

Cas just peers out at the still water, hunched over, his elbows on his knees. "How can I ever know for sure?"

"Because I told you so," Dean says. "And you believe me."

Cas chuckles bitterly. "I don't think you even believe yourself."

A bird trills across the lake, the sound skipping across the water like a stone.

"So that's it, then. We're agreed." Dean shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. His breath billows in front of him. "We just pretend like this never happened."

Cas sits back and tugs his jacket tighter around him. "Sit down," he says. "I'm cold."

Dean sits.

Cas scoots close to him, his arms wrapped around himself, until their arms and legs are touching, side pressed to side, warmth bleeding into each other's bodies.

"This is all I want right now." Cas shivers, and he looks at Dean. "Can it be enough?"

Dean feels his leg pressed against Cas's, solid and real,

and he slowly nods.

"Yeah," he says. "It's enough."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N:_ Okay. So this is a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get it out there. I'm so behind. I'm getting my grades back from my first quarter of law school and APPARENTLY I am merely AVERAGE so I should probably stop DEVOTING SO MUCH TIME TO FANFICTION and actually DEDICATE MYSELF TO MY STUDIES but that will PROBABLY NEVER HAPPEN._

_In related news, I love you all and your reviews validate me and my odd pseudo-Russian ways. I have no idea where the Babushka thing came from but I'm glad you guys share my bizarre sense of humor. Thank you so much for reading._

_Also, many of your responses were "ARGH CAS JUST MAKE OUT WITH DEAN ALREADY YOU CONFOUNDING WOMAN", which I expected, but there were also quite a few "Whew! I'm glad it wasn't that simple for them to get together! That would've been anticlimactic!" To which I have to say…_

_You thought it could possibly be that easy?_

_Oh, you dear thing. You are so, so unprepared for what I will unleash._

_*evil laughter*_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

_*more evil laughter*_

* * *

It's a few days after Thanksgiving when Sam breaks. He's been holding it together amazingly, so amazing that he surprised even himself, and it's just one small simple gesture that gets him, but when it happens…

He breaks.

He gets in the car. He drives around for hours, until after midnight, cruising through back country roads and rural highways, burning through gas, killing time, pulling over once and laying his arms and head on the steering wheel and just fucking dying, until he finds himself home.

Really home.

Sam unlocks the front door quietly and steps carefully toward the kitchen, treading softly. The house is black and silent and even in the darkness, it's subtly different from the way it used to be. The difference is invisible to the naked eye, impossible to describe, clinging to every surface, almost a scent. He doesn't live here anymore and the house knows it. He feels like an intruder creeping in the darkness, tiptoeing gingerly over the plush carpeting; just a few months ago, he would have tossed his keys on the coffee table and slumped into an armchair.

He just wants to get to the liquor cabinet. He crosses the threshold and the soles of his shoes squeak on linoleum when –

"You're not a cheerleader."

Sam whips around.

Cas is standing in the doorway in green boxer shorts with an open jar of peanut butter and a spoon. He stares at Sam with blank pale eyes, slightly off-focus, slightly empty, almost like he's high.

"Holy hell," Sam says, blinking. "You actually sleepwalk."

Cas scoops a spoonful of peanut butter. "Well, you'll never make tryouts with an attitude like that." He shoves the spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth and makes a pleased grunt.

Sam turns back to the liquor cabinet and pulls out the Jack Daniels. "Dreaming about cheerleaders," he mutters. "How very Dean of you."

Cas sits down at the table with a weary sigh, the spacey vacancy in his eyes directed down at the jar in his hands. He then proceeds to mumble in a language that isn't English, and Sam is 98 percent sure it's complete gibberish.

Sam shakes his head. "You and me both, buddy." He sits down across from Cas and pours the liquor into a shot glass, throws it back, wonders briefly if he's becoming his father.

Then he hears the creak of a door down the hallway.

"Sammy?" Dean wanders blearily into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "Wh'fuck's goin' on?"

Sam pours himself another shot. "Alcoholism."

Dean squints at him for a moment.

Then he turns to the cupboard and pulls out two tumblers, nudges the cupboard door shut with his shoulder, and sits down heavily beside him. He places a tumbler in front of Sam. "Your cup's too small."

Sam snorts and dumps his shot into the big glass. "Guess you're a pro at this, huh?"

"Yup." Dean grabs the bottle and pours a liberal amount of Jack into his own glass. "It's the family business."

Cas pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth and peers at Dean. "What are you doing here?" he demands. "You're allergic to snow!"

Dean rolls his eyes and points toward the living room. "Cas. Go. Go over there. The snow people need you."

Cas blinks, and abruptly stands up. "Cornwall," he says. He walks very seriously to the living room.

Dean turns to Sam then with his full attention, the lingering fog of drowsiness fading and his worry-sharp alertness honing in. Sam at once resents it and appreciates it. He came here for this. He needs someone to pry it out of him. It's just that now that the prying is looking him in the face, he feels a twitch of indignation, bruised pride, a sense of _stop trying to fix me, it's not your job_.

But it is. It's always been Dean's job.

"It's Amelia," Sam says.

Dean waits for the rest.

"A few weeks ago…" Sam rubs his palm into his forehead, covers one side of his face with his hand, closes his eyes briefly. "I proposed."

Dean's eyes widen.

"It wasn't totally out of the blue. We had talked about it when we first moved in together," Sam continues. "I thought she was on board. But when I pulled out the ring, she said…" He swallows against the tightness in his throat and feels the liquor burning in his lungs. "She said she needed time to think about it."

Dean sits back in his chair and exhales. "Shit."

"I told her to hang on to it, and take all the time she needed, and then I just waited. And waited. I didn't want to pressure her. Then at Thanksgiving, we went to her dad's house and it was just awful, because the whole time I'm wondering, _did she tell him?_" Sam drags his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. "Then tonight I come home. She's already left for work. And on the kitchen table, I see…"

A little blue velvet box.

Sam picks up his glass and takes a sharp drink of biting whiskey, and then lets his hand clatter back on the table. "She gave back the ring, Dean."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" Dean asks.

"I thought I wouldn't have to," Sam admits hoarsely. "I thought she was going to say yes. I mean, shit, Dean! I thought she was going to marry me!"

Dean takes a sip of his own glass and sighs. "So, what does this mean?"

"I don't know." Sam stares down at the table and tries to blink back the stinging in his eyes. "I don't know. As far as I know, it's not the end of… us, but I didn't… I didn't even know that she doesn't…"

"Hey." Dean lays a hand on his shoulder, reassuring and firm. "Sammy. Look at me."

Sam looks up.

Dean is gazing at him with a confident, solid look Sam can't help but believe in. "Talk to her. Don't let this tear you apart. She's got her reasons and it may have nothin' to do with you. Alright?"

Sam nods.

"The economy is shit. You guys just moved in a few months ago. Maybe you accidentally gave her blood diamonds," Dean says. "It could be anything, Sam, anything. And you gotta talk to her and find out before you jump to any conclusions, okay?"

"Tryouts are over."

Dean and Sam's heads both swivel to the entryway.

Cas is standing there very somberly, seeming to pity the two non-cheerleaders. "Winchesters," he says. "It's time to collect your fruit."

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up. "Yeah, I'll 'collect' my _fruit_ here –" he jerks his chin toward Cas – "and then we'll talk some more." He walks over to Cas and herds him through the kitchen. "C'mon, coach, time to hit the hay."

"Mayonnaise," Cas mumbles, following along compliantly.

"Uh huh. That's great. Keep it movin'."

Sam laughs to himself under his breath and drinks more of his whiskey. It's starting to hit him now, diluting his thoughts and making his eyes cross a little, and he nearly misses the fact that Dean doesn't herd Cas back upstairs to Sam's old room.

He's leading Cas to Dean's room.

He's leading him back to his room.

Sam isn't sure what to make of that, and it honestly just makes his stomach hurt to think about it because _shit, Dean, what are you getting yourself into, what are you doing, do you even think before you dive headfirst into hell _so he decides not to think about it at all, and he drains the last droplets of liquor in his glass.

…..

**December**

Castiel hates this room.

Lucas leans forward onto the brushed aluminum table, his cuffs clinking quietly. "A visitor!" he says with a grin. "To what do I owe this great pleasure?"

Castiel hates looking at his brother, because this is the way he looks in all his nightmares. Smiling, shadows under his eyes, orange jumpsuit, his face gone slightly gaunt. He's been getting thinner in prison, despite the plethora of exercise equipment available to him. Castiel suspects the guards may have told him that the prisoners who work in the kitchens are spitting in his food.

That's what they told Cas, anyway.

Castiel pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table. "I received this in the mail yesterday."

The envelope is addressed to Castiel Goodwin, and the postage has been stamped by the prison. Inside is a piece of folded paper on which a single sentence has been scrawled: _You have my leave_.

It's signed by Lucas Goodwin.

Lucas doesn't open the envelope, doesn't even look at the letter. He just gazes evenly at Castiel and purses his lips.

"What is the meaning of this?" Castiel asks.

"You know," Lucas drawls slowly, "you could've just called."

Castiel glares. "I thought you might be more honest in person."

Lucas sits back in his chair and regards Castiel. He clasps his hands, and his chains jangle. "Interesting," he finally says. "It's so interesting, Cas."

"What is?" Cas demands. "Talk plainly!"

"Do you remember when we were children," Lucas says, a far-off look in his eye, "and our father used to make us memorize Bible verses, and beat us when we couldn't remember?"

Castiel frowns, confused. "No." Their father had been stern, but never violent.

"Oh, come on," Lucas goads him. "What about the time he took us into the woods, stripped us naked, and whipped us our backs bloody with a willow switch until we blacked out?"

Castiel shoots to his feet, his heart hammering with fury. "What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" he spits.

"You don't remember that?" Lucas's eyebrows knot quizzically. "Huh. That's funny. Neither do I..." Then the corner of his mouth curls upward. "But my biographer _loves_ it."

Castiel finds his jaw clenching, his hands twisting tight. "You have a biographer?"

"Oh yeah, I'm a big celebrity." Lucas jumps his eyebrows and bites the inside of his cheek. "I'm surprised, baby brother. All that time you were in here, and you didn't get any gentleman callers?"

"I turned them down," Castiel growls. "My life story isn't over yet."

"Oh, really?" Lucas looks up at him with sharp eyes, cutting clear eyes that Cas can feel in his bones. "And what sort of book are you writing, exactly? I recognize your new address, Cassie."

Cas's stomach drops.

"My biographer is a helpful fellow," Lucas says, a dark glint in his eye. "You're living with that handsome sheriff now. I don't suppose you've told him about your… proclivities."

Cas's back goes rigid and tight.

"I'm still amazed it never came out at trial," Lucas continues. "Juries love a sexual deviant. And the way Daphne cried on the stand, I thought for sure she would –"

"_He knows," _Cas snarls, snatching the envelope off the table. "I'm done here. Go fuck yourself."

Lucas laughs. "See, that's what's so interesting, Cas. You keep saying you'll fly away and yet…" He looks at his hands and twirls his fingers idly, as though he's flipping a coin over his knuckles. "I keep on finding you tangled in my web."

Castiel's breath is coming fast, his adrenaline jittering in his hands. "Rot in hell, Lucas."

Lucas pantomimes a fishing rod; he raises the rod over his shoulder and then casts his imaginary fly, making a whizzing sound with his teeth pressed against his lip.

Cas turns his back on Lucas and slams the button to summon the guard. He walks through the building, passes through security, sprints to the bus stop and doesn't look back, doesn't look back for one second.

He doesn't have to look back to know that Lucas is cranking his hand in a circular motion,

reeling him in.

…


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _Ohmygoodness I love you guys. You know why I love you? Because you're the best people. You're the best, prettiest people and you deserve all the good things in the world. Thank you for reviewing the last chapter, and I hope you will continue to review as we truck along here, even though there is a good possibility I will have a nervous breakdown from applying for summer internships and completely lose my mind and close the story with an epilogue about Dean and Cas moving to Hawaii and starting a pineapple plantation with a talking chimp named Larry._

_Wait… that's not half bad… *scribbles down notes*_

_Anyway, I just want you all to know that I appreciate you and cherish you. Go have a glass of alcohol. You deserve it. Heck, have two alcohols. Pat yourself on the back and try not to spill your booze in the process._

_P.S. Because I'm terrible at this, I didn't split up the time transitions well. This chapter starts in December, specifically the same afternoon that Cas is visiting Lucas in prison. If I was, like, smart I would have made a completely different chapter break. Oh well! Hopefully you won't have too hard of a time figuring it out._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Meanwhile**

Winter has set in for good with a biting cold snap in the first week of December, the naked trees spindly and black against endless gray skies. No snow, just freezing rain and sleet, black ice on the roadways and a thick coating of frost on every windshield. The only good thing about the shitty weather is that it's an excuse to get cozy. Of the three stakeouts Dean and Cas had this week, two of them ended with the pair driving home with the heat cranked up and falling asleep together on the couch. The third would've ended the same way but for some reason neither of them could fall asleep, so after a few hours of huddling under a blanket and marathoning NCIS they reluctantly returned to their respective beds.

So, all things considered, the cold isn't so bad.

Saturday afternoon, however, Dean is in a bit of a sticky situation. Normally he'd just ring up Sam and make him lend a hand; unfortunately, Sam won't pick up his damn phone, and now he has to resort to extreme measures.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Amelia. It's Dean. Do you know where Sam is?"

"He's still at the office, I think…"

"Shit. Okay. He's turned off his cell."

"You could call his office."

"Nah, it's not… that important. Shit. I wonder if Bobby's home…"

"… Is it something I can help with?"

"…."

"Or, if not, I'm sure Sam'll be home –"

"Do you know anything about cooking? Like, candy cooking?"

"Um. I know a little. It depends. What's the problem?"

"Cas is gonna be back from the library any minute and I made these fucking caramels and – shit. Okay, let me start from the beginning."

"Okay…"

"I never made caramels before. I looked at the list of ingredients and thought it would be simple. Cream, sugar, corn syrup, bam – caramel. And it was all going just fine, too, until I decided to pour the molten caramel into a pan lined with wax paper, because that's the rational, sane thing to do, and I put it in the fridge. Only it turns out, when you pour hot caramel onto wax paper…"

"… the wax melts."

"The caramels are completely stuck to the paper. I tried cutting it up and peeling off the paper, but it's worse than scraping off gunky price tags."

"Hmmm… Wow, uh… Let me think about this. Ermmm… I'm just spitballing here, but what if you used a hair dryer?"

"A _hair dryer?_"

"Yeah, use it to warm the caramel and melt off the paper."

"… That actually might work."

"Give it a try and let me know."

"Wait – Amelia."

"Yeah?"

"I don't have a hair dryer."

"…"

"…"

"I'll be right over."

….

Normally, Dean would just eat the paper-enhanced caramel or throw it all out. But whole reason he's going to all this trouble is to surprise his platonic-ass roommate and kick off the holiday season for a man who's had Christmas behind bars for the last six years and if it's not _absolutely goddamn perfect_ it's not good enough for Cas. So now he's letting his brother's girlfriend gawk at it even though he was just speaking to her boyfriend last week about the fact that she's probably dumping him, all in the insane hope that he can somehow salvage this fucking caramel.

Yeah.

Amelia looks at the block of caramel and plugs in her hair dryer. Her frizzy black hair is pulled back and she's clearly dressed in comfort clothes – old ratty gray t-shirt, jeans with a hole by the pocket, dirty sneakers. She hefts the dryer and shrugs. "Here goes nothing!"

Dean watches anxiously as it whirrs warm air at the caramel block, slowly but surely warming the candy. As Amelia heats it, he gingerly tugs on a corner the wax paper.

It starts to peel back.

"It's working!" Dean exclaims. "Fuck yeah!"

"I am a genius," Amelia gloats. "I should get an _award_ for this level of MacGuyvering."

In just a few short minutes, they have an entire pan of paper-free caramel and Cas is still nowhere in sight. The two of them high five, get knives and begin cutting the caramel into squares, and they fall into silence.

After a minute, Dean decides to do something stupid. "Hey, Amelia."

Amelia's concentrating on her cutting, making even, straight rectangles. "Yeah, Dean?"

Dean puts down his knife. "Have you talked to Sam yet?"

Amelia pauses briefly, her hand tight on the blade.

She resumes cutting, staring fixedly down at the caramel. "No," she admits. "I've been putting him off, actually."

Dean sighs. "Look, I know it's none of my business –"

"It really isn't," Amelia agrees.

"But you need to talk to him. He needs an explanation."

Amelia stops, and she sets down her knife. She looks Dean in the eyes. "And what if I already know that the explanation I give him isn't going to cut it?"

"You can't know that," Dean counters. "Not until you tell him."

"I know," she mutters, a distant darkness in her eyes. "I already know."

A knot is already gathering in Dean's chest, and he forces himself to say, "Amelia. If you don't love Sam, you _need_ to tell him that."

Amelia puts a hand to her eyes and shakes her head. She sucks in a deep breath and clears her throat, gathering herself. Then she looks up at the ceiling and lets out a short, bitter laugh. "It's the exact opposite, actually."

Dean frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Amelia balls her hands and blinks quickly, and her words grow quiet and clipped. "If I loved him less, I wouldn't be able to let him go."

Dean steps closer to her and lowers his voice. "Amelia…"

"Please." She grabs her hair dryer. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

She wraps the cord around the dryer and leaves, grabbing her purse on the way out, driving away in her sensible Subaru as Dean watches out the kitchen window.

…

Dean's sprawled on the sofa going over security cam footage on his laptop when Cas finally gets home. He hears the front door opening and calls over his shoulder. "Hey, how was the library?"

A silent pause.

"Fine," Cas finally says.

"You shoulda called me when you wanted to get back," Dean says, craning his head to look at him. "I could've picked you… up…"

Cas looks like complete shit. His eyes are hollow and his face is haggard and his shoulders are slumped down like he's dead where he stands.

Dean scrambles up from the couch. "Dude. What happened?"

"Nothing," Cas answers flatly. "I didn't find the books I wanted."

"Shit, man, don't take it so hard," Dean says. "Just put 'em on hold or something."

Cas nods, not even noticing the fir tree in the corner, and trudges to toward the kitchen.

Dean dashes over and steps between Cas and the entryway and breathlessly tries for casual. "Hey, so, while you were gone, I had some spare time, and uh. I made something. For you."

Cas blinks.

Dean steps into the kitchen and grabs the red-striped tin from the counter. He tries and fails not to flush with embarrassment as he hands it awkwardly to Cas and stammers, "I mean, I figured, since it's December, like the holidays coming up, normal people do this shit and anyway if you don't like it you don't have to eat it and anyway it probably sucks balls so sorry about that –"

Castiel opens the tin and looks down in surprise. "Caramels."

"Yup." Dean sticks his thumbs in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "Soooooo. There you go."

Cas sets the tin on the kitchen table and pops one of the squares in his mouth. As he chews it, he looks back to Dean. "You make caramels?"

Dean shrugs. "First time for everything."

Castiel nods. "It's good." He absently wipes his hand on his pants.

Dean smiles. "Glad to hear it."

Cas picks up the lid of the tin, and for a moment he stops and looks at it. He carefully closes it over the caramels, and without looking up, he softly says, "This was very thoughtful of you."

Dean knows he's bright red, and he's given up trying to fight it. "I'm just trying to get… festive." He swings a hand toward the living room. "I got a tree, figured tomorrow we could get up some lights…"

Cas's fingertips linger on the metal, his thumb skating across the smooth surface. When he speaks again, he still looks at the tin, his voice quiet and subdued. "Dean. I need to ask you something."

There's something there, something wary underneath his voice. Dean leans back against the countertop and watches him. "Shoot."

"How long have you…" Cas's hand flattens on the tin, and the side of his cheek hollows as he sucks it in. "How long have you known about me?"

Dean frowns. "Known what about you?"

A pink tinge rises on Cas's neck, and he continues carefully studying the tin. "About my sexuality."

Dean opens his mouth to form a question, and can't find the words.

"I know it must have been after the trial that you discovered it," Cas continues, still not meeting his eyes. "I would've heard if they'd tried to enter it into evidence."

"Cas," Dean manages to say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The pink tinge crawls up Cas's cheeks. "When did you find out I'm bisexual?"

_Ahhhhhhh. _

Dean feels at once relieved and terrified, light-headed and stuck to the ground. Suddenly the rugged unknown terrain of impossibility is shrinking and the known world is becoming stranger and wilder, and the trapped formless suspicions in his heart have an identity, a name, a color that shines bright and hot and dangerous.

"I didn't," he says. "I didn't know."

Cas's head snaps sharply in Dean's direction, his eyebrows knotted sharply.

"I thought –" Dean's skin burns inside of itself, hot with embarrassment – "I thought you were straight, e-except for whatever. Whatever the fuck we have. I thought that was part of… the reason you… didn't want. That."

Cas only frowns tighter. "But if you didn't know," he says, "why did you kiss me?"

Dean swallows and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "Cas, I was drinking. I wasn't thinking. I was just – taking what I wanted. I didn't think about what you wanted. I mean, after that, I thought, I kind of thought maybe you'd want that but in that moment – I had no idea, and I didn't even care."

Cas still stares at him, still a confused frown, still torn between what he believed and what he's hearing.

Dean licks his lips and admits, "It was basically the most selfish thing I could've done."

Cas looks away, his mouth tightening and his eyes lowering to the floor.

Then he steps forward and puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, and he asks, "You feel guilty over this, don't you?"

Dean laughs self-consciously. "Ah, you know me too well."

"And if I did something selfish…." Cas's eyes are trained on his, focused and guarded. "Would that settle the score?"

Dean's heart thumps against the inside of his ribs and the spot where Cas's hand sits is heavy and warm and every inch of his skin is aware of every inch of Cas's and he answers, "Yeah. I guess it would."

Slowly, deliberately, Cas leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's, kissing him soft and steady and restrained. Dean closes his eyes and presses back, his hands sliding to Cas's waist, tilting his head for a better angle, moving his lips against Cas's and breathing in Cas's skin and licking into his mouth and barely touching with the edge of his teeth and sinking into the well of pleasure in his gut that urges him on and on and on.

Then suddenly his lips are cold.

Cas has pulled back, gazing intently at his face, something bittersweet lingering in his eyes. "There," he murmurs. "We're even."

"Is that it?" Dean whispers, a slightly desperately smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's all I get?"

Cas sucks a long breath, and slides his arms around Dean. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder and sighs. "Yes. I'm sorry."

And Dean's arms wrap around Cas and they lean there against the countertop, holding each other, silent and incomplete and unwilling to let go.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N:_ Okay, you need to know six things._

_1) I wanted to bring you a much longer chapter and_

_2) I actually have a portion of the next chapter written and_

_3) pacing-wise it probably belongs here but_

_4) I was dissatisfied with the quality of the last bit and_

_5) I'm already late on this update so_

_6) screw it, y'all get a chapter._

_The last thing you need to know is that I love you as much as I love fine cheeses and that you make my sleep-deprived life good. Thank you for your awesomeness._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**December 7****th**

"Stop cleaning!" Dean shouts. "I literally just wiped down that countertop, you _psychopath!_"

"This is a _bleach wipe_," Cas shouts back, scrubbing the kitchen counter vigorously, "so that we don't get _salmonella_!"

"You are worse than Sam!" Dean bellows. "There! I said it! You are worse! Than! Sam!"

….

**December 10****th**

"You've been stealing my socks!" Castiel accuses.

"Have not," Dean retorts, flipping through the channels and stuffing his face with potato chips. "Sides, our socks are identical."

Castiel points to Dean's besocked feet, which are kicked up on the coffee table. "These socks are mine."

Dean snorts and wiggles his toes. "Oh yeah? Prove it."

Cas snatches the white sock off of Dean's right foot and brandishes it in his face. On the bottom, written in black sharpie, is _CG._

Dean pauses mid-chew.

Castiel glares.

"I wrote that," Dean mumbles. "Stands for Chief… Guy."

Castiel grabs the bag of chips and dumps it out over Dean's head.

….

**December 12****th**

****"So he says she finally did ta- Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. For the last. Fucking. Time." Dean grits his teeth and clenches and unclenches his hands, staring at the digital readout on the wall. "Castiel Goodwin. Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT turn the thermostat above 65 degrees Fahrenheit."

Castiel doesn't look up from his laptop. He's sitting at the dining room table, obviously engaged in some intense forum discussion on the new Star Trek movie or some shit like that. "Room temperature is 70 degrees."

"NO!" Dean yanks his own hair. "IT IS NOT. SEVENTY. DEGREES. ROOM TEMPERATURE IS, BY DEFINITION, WHATEVER FUCKING TEMPERATURE THE ROOM CURRENTLY FUCKING IS."

Castiel turns around in his chair and glowers. "Don't act as though my desire to keep the house at a comfortable temperature is so outrageous. We can afford the heating bill!"

"_You_ can afford the heating bill!" Dean hollers. "Unlike some people, the state didn't just give me several million dollars –"

And that's when Castiel stands up, and his voice drops low. "I _earned_ that money," he growls, "over six years."

Dean closes his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I crossed a line."

Cas looks away and walks to the living room.

Dean follows him.

"So, anyway, like I was telling you," he rambles on casually, trying for a careless tone, "I guess Sam doesn't want to talk about it, but he says it's just a really stupid bullshit thing and he thinks he can change her mind if he's just patient enough. Which is, as you know, the exact opposite of what will happen."

Castiel sits down on the sofa heavily and grabs the remote.

Dean perches himself on the armchair across from him, sitting on the arm and resting his hands on his knees. "Because the longer he gives her to think about it, the more she's going to _think_ about it, and the more she's going to convince herself she's right. Whatever her deal is, she's convinced that she knows what's best, and giving her time is just giving her the chance to nut up and leave him."

Cas turns up the volume on his cheetah documentary.

Dean watches him for a minute, and then sighs. "Cas. I really am sorry. For what I said."

"Don't be sorry," Cas mutters. "Just sit next to me and watch the cheetahs."

Dean hesitates, and then gets up and moves to the sofa.

They sit quietly and watch the program. It's pretty fascinating, actually – there's this mother cheetah and her baby and they're out in the African wilderness alone, and this British dude in a Jeep is like really fucking excited about it, and the baby has a fluffy little ridge on its back and makes a chirping noise like a baby bird. Except then the mother has to leave the baby to go hunt, and there's a roving pack of lions nearby, and the baby cheetah is all alone on a grassy hilltop, chirping. Chirping.

The lions wander nearer.

"Aw, shit." Dean clenches his hands nervously. "Ohhh, shit, this is not going to end well. This is why I hate documentaries."

Cas glances over at him and reaches for the remote.

"No!" Dean puts a hand out to stop him, and licks his lips. "I – I need to know. I'm too invested now."

The hazy savannah sunset pours over the brown-gold grasslands, and the lions amble in lazy circles at the bottom of the hill, still cleaning their muzzles from a recent kill. Their ears swivel forward, brown eyes narrowing, whiskers twitching.

The baby cheetah, standing alone on the hilltop, cries another plaintive chirp.

And the episode ends.

"Oh, come on!" Dean protests.

Cas sighs. "This is the usual way of these things," he says. He picks up the remote and mutes the commercials. "The producers of these programs are shameless in their use of emotional manipulation to maintain viewership."

The two of them slump into the sofa in comfortable silence.

And in that silence, somehow Dean finds the words. It's probably the worst possible time to broach the topic but it feels oddly right. For some reason, _now _is the moment he finds the courage to bring up the thing that's been weighing on his mind for the last week, hovering at the edge of his vision, stumbling in his throat. He's been trying to be patient, trying to give Cas space to bring it up on his own, but after a week of walking around with a constant itching at the back of his brain, he knows it's time.

"You know," he says, "you kissed me last week."

Cas nods. "I did."

"And you said… it was selfish." Dean clears his throat. "Which is weird. Because that means you _wanted _to kiss me."

Cas swallows. "I did."

"And I keep turning it over in my mind… and it doesn't make any sense." Now that the words are actually coming out of his mouth, Dean feels strangely numb, strangely immune to the anxiety he normally feels whenever his emotions and Cas are in the same room. "Because if I want to kiss you, and you want to kiss me… Then why aren't we kissing?"

For a long time, Cas doesn't say anything. His eyes are fixed somewhere on the coffee table, somewhere in the distance, and the rest of him is completely still.

Eventually he takes a deep breath.

"Dean," he says, "I don't know if I can explain it in a way you'll accept."

"I'm not asking you to convince me," Dean replies. "I'm not – trying. I'm just asking."

Cas turns his face to Dean, and he looks him in the eye. "Then I'll try to explain."

Dean waits.

Cas's right hand tightens nervously on the sofa cushion. "I have… many feelings about you, some of them conflicting, and… many doubts about myself. And if I were in a different position, I might – I might feel free to explore these feelings and doubts in. In the context of a – a sexual relationship."

Dean's eyes are glued to Cas and his fists clench and his chest tightens and because he knows what's coming, but he can't turn the channel. He's too invested.

"But… since we live together, and because… you are my only friend," Cas continues slowly, "I want to resolve some of those feelings and doubts within myself before… before I entangle them further."

Dean nods.

What he wants to say is, _Cas, I'm already so tied up in you that I couldn't untangle myself if I tried. If you're waiting for this to get simpler you're going to be waiting a hell of a long time because the more time I spend with you the more complicated it gets and nothing worth doing is ever risk free and I'm willing to risk it, I am, you can blame it all on me when it blows up in our faces, tell 'em all it was my bad idea and I'll take my lumps because I don't have any doubts when it comes to you anymore. _

But what he says out loud is, "Okay."

He watches the look dawn over Cas's face at that simple word, the immense relief that Dean isn't going to challenge this, that he's accepted it, that he's accepted _him_ at face value, and Dean knows he said the right thing.

They turn back to the television and watch the next nature program about a family of meerkats, and when Cas slides his hand over onto Dean's and twines their fingers together, Dean feels his face flush red and thinks to himself,

_Okay._

…..

**December 17****th**

"I have to say…" Jody flips through the photographs. "Guys, I'm really impressed."

Cas and Dean both sit a little straighter in their chairs. "Thanks," Dean says.

She sits forward on her desk and clasps her hands, looking to each of them for a few seconds. "I want to bring you in on something. Something… bigger."

Dean and Cas glance at each other.

Jody opens a drawer and pulls out one of her files. "This man, the one you saw with Yuri a few weeks ago?"

Cas takes the file and leans over to show it to Dean. There are police reports and mugshots of the blonde man who sold the drugs in the alleyway, one "Balthazar Travers".

"He's a dealer, not a supplier," Jody tells them. "Our informants tell us that he reports to a man known only as 'M'. We've been trying to get a bead on him for weeks, but according to my deputies, he's slippery." She doesn't look too convinced by this assessment. "I want you two to track him down if you can and follow him. Watch where he goes, take pictures, report back."

Dean sits back in his chair. "Singer. This is high-profile. You need officers on this, maybe even an undercover unit. You know that."

"I _have_ officers on this," she retorts, "and they're getting me jack shit, Winchester! This is important. I need all hands on deck, and that includes you two."

Dean stands up and grabs the file from Cas's hands, throwing it on Jody's desk. "This isn't what we signed on for. No thanks."

Cas stands up slowly. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Dean," he says, apologetically. "The stakes in this case would be… much higher, and I'm not prepared to take on that responsibility."

Jody glares.

Cas ducks his head.

"No, not you," she snaps. "I'm not mad at you." She points her glare more narrowly at Dean.

Dean crosses his arms. "You make that face for long enough and it'll stick that way."

Jody clenches her fists and stands up with a frustrated noise. "I _need_ you on this," she insists. "Please, I'm begging you. If you don't help me, we might never catch him!"

"Then you don't catch him! That's life!" Dean declares loudly, irritation leaking into his voice, seeping into his teeth. "But more importantly, it's not my problem anymore!"

"Isn't that convenient?" Jody demands, her eyes flashing. "What is it exactly that you're afraid of, Dean? Realizing that you're still good at what you do?"

Dean's irritation boils over into anger. "It's not what I fucking _do_ anymore!" he yells. "It stopped being what I 'do' months ago! Funny how losing your job will re-route your career plan!"

"You quit!" she shouts, stabbing a finger at him. "_You_ quit! You quit on this department and you quit on all of us and you quit on _me_, Dean!"

"Yeah!" Dean shouts back, stepping forward as his control unravels completely. "That's right, I fucking quit, Jody! So guess what? You're not my deputy, or my boss, or whatever the fuck you think you are, and you have no fucking right to tell me –"

Jody slams her fist against the desk so hard it shakes. "I'm your_ family_!" she snarls, her eyes shining.

The dead quiet in the small office is deafening.

Dean shuts his mouth and opens the door. He walks out without a word.

Jody puts her hands flat on her desk and lowers her head.

Cas clears his throat. "I think we'll still be attending dinner on Saturday," he says. "We're bringing a salad."

Jody nods without looking up.

Castiel leaves her office with a few backward glances of regret, uncertain of what to say and erring on the side of silence.

….


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: _My poor, neglected angelkins. I am so sorry this update took so long, but I was really unhappy with the way the last chapter got broken up and I didn't want to post something like that again. I forced myself to hang onto this chapter until it was fully formed, and even though I'm still rushing a bit and it may not be perfect, I feel it's a little more thematically rounded than the last installment. We'll see, I guess. I hope you guys like it! _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is... drumroll please..._

_MY CAT! _

_and by that I mean, MY ROOMMATE'S CAT! _

_Yes, Calico is everything you could ask for in a 10-month-old cat. She meows, she purrs, she kneads, and she is downright bizarrely OBSESSED with licking everything she can get her little tongue on, including your face. Calico's hobbies are eating, sleeping, eating, trying to eat non-edible objects, sitting, and meowing sharply when you displease her by shutting her out of the bathroom during your shower. She is unfortunately unable to regulate her own food intake at this time as she believes she should be allowed to eat her own weight in cat food, so you will have to keep regularly scheduled mealtimes. If you deviate from said mealtimes, Calico will be sure to let you know. In fact, Calico will do her damnedest to convince you to triple the number of mealtimes. Just write a review and Calico can be yours ABSOLUTELY FREEEE!* _

_*Plus $29.95 shipping and handling. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

In the car, the radio plays quietly and drowns out the unspoken thoughts. The drive home is long and heavy.

Finally, Cas speaks. "I enjoy our job."

Dean glances over at him.

"I like having something to do," Cas continues, gazing out the window. "It gives me purpose. And I like working with you."

Dean watches the road and tightens his grip on the wheel.

"I think you were right to turn down the assignment." He can feel Cas redirect his eyes, boring into Dean, cutting through his skin. "But I would like to keep working for Jody, if we can."

"I'm sorry," Dean mumbles. "I'm always fucking things up."

Cas reaches over and pats his arm. "I know."

There is a beat of silence.

"That was a joke," Castiel says. "I was joking."

"That was _not_ a joke," Dean retorts. "You think I fuck everything up!"

"That's a very broad statement."

"So you admit it!"

"You're usually competent in most areas –"

"Competent! In _most areas!_ Wow, Cas, quit with the flattery –"

" – but you do have a tendency to aggravate disagreements."

"I argue too much, is that what you're saying?"

"Yes."

"Of all the ridiculous –"

They pull up in front of the house still bickering. Dean parks the car but lets the engine idle. "It's nearly 5," he says. "Run in and grab your book and I'll take you to Becky's…"

…..

Jody doesn't know what to tell Bobby.

She finally settles on, "We had a fight. Dean and I."

Bobby's busy devouring his chicken stew, racing spoonfuls to his mouth as fast as possible, but at her hesitant words his hand stutters. He looks up from his bowl. "How bad?"

Jody sighs. "Nothing that can't be fixed with a well-time pie," she admits, "but… we both got pretty sharp."

Bobby doesn't push her to elaborate on said what. He never does. He always gets right to the heart of the matter. "Whose fault was it?"

"His!" Jody answers indignantly. Then she groans and puts her head in her hand. "Okay, mostly mine, but… He's so stubborn, Bobby! He has no idea how _hard_ I'm just trying to help."

"Maybe he does," Bobby suggests. "Maybe he doesn't want the help. You can't save somebody who doesn't wanna be saved."

Jody frowns and crosses her arms. "Bullshit."

Bobby snorts. "And you say Dean's the stubborn one."

"Hey, if I see a guy on a ledge and I can't talk him down, I'm not just gonna let him jump," Jody says. "I'm gonna be waiting at the bottom with a trampoline. Just because you give up on yourself doesn't mean I have to give up on you too."

Bobby eyes her for a minute, with that sage look that always prefaces something Jody doesn't want to hear. "Then go ahead, sweet pea," he says. "Break out the trampolines. Just be prepared when he gets back up on that ledge the next day, and the next day, and every day after."

Jody narrows her eyes.

Bobby returns to his stew. "Great job with dinner."

"It's just stew," she grumbles. "A kindergartner could've made it." She tucks into her own bowl, and she has to admit – it _is_ pretty damn good.

It's ten minutes later when they both hear a knock at the door.

Jody pushes her chair back. "Two guesses as to who that is."

"Go easy on him," Bobby says.

Jody ignores him and walks to the front door.

Sure enough, Dean Winchester is standing on their front porch, pigeon-toed and sheepish and for all that he's a good several inches taller than her, looking like a cowed little boy.

"Hey, Jody," he greets her. "I just dropped Cas off at his book club, and I realized I was in the neighborhood…"

Jody raises an eyebrow. "Book club? Isn't that a middle-aged empty nester thing?"

"It's – it's a Cas having Cas-time thing," Dean retorts defensively. "He has the book club, I have the firing range, and both of us get a little breathing room, so you can just –" He shakes his head and waves his hand. "Shit, no, I'm getting off on the wrong foot. Jody, I came to apologize. I'm sorry for being a dick."

Jody feels a twinge in her heart, a niggle of compassion that she stifles down and stomps into submission. "You know, Dean," she says in a steely tone, "it really pissed me off, the way you talked back at the office. I know you were my superior not that long ago, and I'll never be as close to you as Bobby, but –"

"No, you were right," Dean interrupts earnestly. "You're family, Jody. I know you're only trying to look out for me. I know that. And I know…" He swallows hard and glances at his feet. "When it all came down on me, I ran. And I let it all fall on you. That wasn't fair, and… I get why you're angry. You have a right to that."

The twinge of compassion melts into a puddle. She scoops most of it back inside herself but a little leaks out anyway, so she sponges it up with her own last-ditch effort. "I'm not asking you to make amends," Jody says quietly, honestly. "I'm just asking for your help."

She can see the emotions warring in Dean's face, the struggle there, the conflict etched in the lines of his mouth and the knotting of his eyebrows. "I'm sorry," he says, "but believe me when I say… I _can't_."

Jody sighs.

She does believe him, she does. Unfortunately, regardless of Dean's hang-ups, there's an expanding drug ring in a county that became her responsibility nine months ago and the journalists and news anchors and concerned mothers are clawing at her back and she's been running the force ragged trying to pin it down, and the only tool she hasn't used is standing in front of her and telling her he's useless. And somehow, she's supposed to take it all in stride.

When Dean was sheriff, Jody used to wonder how the kid held it all together. Since he stepped down, she's realized how much time he spent making it _look_ like he was holding it all together. The Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, misdirection, sleight of hand, a flash of light and a billow of smoke to cover the sleepless nights and the liquor in your glass.

It's not Dean's fault. Jody just needs to become a better magician.

"I understand, Dean," Jody says. "And I won't ask you about it anymore. It's just so hard to watch you sit on the sidelines when I need you in the game so badly." She rubs her elbow. "The price I pay for being the head honcho, I guess."

Dean nods, a commiserating nod. "Shit job, huh?"

Jody smiles wryly. "Complete shit. But somebody's gotta do it."

The two stand in the doorway and regard each other.

"Why don't you come in," she says. "I made chicken stew."

Dean lifts his chin and narrows his eyes in suspicion. "So… you've discovered my weakness."

Jody smirks. "Food is every man's weakness."

"You two done yappin' yet?" Bobby calls from the other room. "You're lettin' a draft in!"

Jody rolls her eyes and Dean comes inside, and soon they're eating dinner together and making small talk and everything is just as it should be.

….

Two hours later, Castiel waves goodbye to the female empty nesters and slides into the passenger seat next to Dean.

"Have fun?" Dean asks.

Cas smiles and smoothes the jacket of his hardcover book. "I do like _Jane Eyre_."

Dean snorts, and then catches himself and turns it into a cough.

Cas looks over to him.

"Great," Dean says. "That's great."

"It's a good book," Cas says seriously. "You should read it before you mock it."

"It just doesn't seem like my thing," Dean hedges. "I'm not really into… lady books."

Cas's eyebrows lower and his face darkens. "It's not a lady book. It's a book about a woman. There is a distinct difference."

"Alright, alright!" Dean throws a hand up in surrender.

Cas gazes at him for awhile. "You know, you do remind me a little of one of the characters."

Dean frowns. "You mean Batman's in that book?"

Cas ignores his comment. "When Jane is a little girl, she's sent away to a charity school," he continues. "There they teach her that disobedient girls are sent to hell. When the headmaster asks Jane if she wants to be sent to hell, she answers no. Then he asks her how she will avoid such a fate. She thinks it over, and tells him… 'I must keep in good health and not die.'"

Dean has to chuckle at that.

Cas smiles and looks out the window. "I thought it sounded like something you might say."

"Yeah," Dean admits. "I'll give you that one."

"But what I find truly interesting is Thornfield Hall," Cas says. He's in a talkative mood, apparently; Dean's never heard him speak this much about his book club.

Then again, Dean's never asked.

"Jane has come to work at Thornfield Hall, and she's fallen in love with the master of the house, Mr. Rochester. For awhile it seemed that fate and their stations in life would keep them apart, and then finally Mr. Rochester proposed. They're about to be married, but…" Cas looks down at the book in his lap, a slight wrinkle of worry along his forehead. "There's something going on at Thornfield. Something dark, and secret. As happy as Jane and Rochester _should_ be, something is wrong. There are signs. Omens. Rochester is acting oddly. Jane is having strange dreams…" Cas trails off and glides his thumb along the spine of the book, lost in thought. His eyes are focused somewhere on the cover and yet somewhere in the distance, somewhere both far-off and deeply inward, and his lips are just barely parted, as though he's forgotten the word half-spoken on his tongue.

Dean stops at a light and pats Cas on the leg. "Don't get too hung up on it, buddy," he says. "It's just a book. I'm sure it'll work out alright."

Cas keeps his eyes on the cover of _Jane Eyre_, unable to climb out of his own thoughts and join the land of the living.

The light turns green and Dean drives again. "I stopped by Bobby's place," he tells Cas. "Talked to Jody. I think things are square between us."

"Good."

"I don't know about you, but I'm glad to be done with the Yuri case though. I could use a little downtime…"

"To play more video games?" Cas asks.

"I don't just play video games!" Dean protests. "I also… fuckin'… make model cars and shit."

Cas raises his eyebrows.

"I do," Dean insists. "I just haven't… recently."

Cas's eyebrows climb even higher.

"Shut up," Dean snaps. "You're just jealous."

Cas turns to look out the window, and a small smirk tugs at his cheek.

"I said shut up," Dean growls.

Cas doesn't say a word, and mocks Dean all the same.

And Dean's lucky that he's driving, because if he wasn't, he'd probably do something really stupid like pin Cas against a wall and kiss the damn mockery right out of him. And then the fact that that even occurs to Dean as a possible course of action makes him a little light-headed and dry-mouthed, so he forces himself to stop thinking about it.

They pull up in the driveway, the tires of the Impala crunching over frozen gravel. In the winter darkness, the house is beautiful – strands of classic-colored Christmas lights hanging along the rooftop, the old egg-shaped kind that burn hot to the touch, relics Dean found tangled in the basement. The night has blanketed the roof in thin white frost that sparkles under the orange streetlight, and the grass is matted with it too, flocked with ice, crunchy and pale and glittering. The two of them sit for a moment in silence, drinking in the glistening night.

"It's almost Christmas," Dean says.

Cas nods.

A strange cold breath of air whisps under Dean's collar, and he shivers.

"Let's get inside," he mutters. "I'm freezing my balls off out here…"


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _Dear constituents:_

_I typed you a big ol' A/N, and my stupid browser erased it. I hate you, Chrome. I hate you with the strength of a thousand wildebeest hoofs. FEEL MY WRATH, GOOGLE! But rather than retype it all, since I am exhausted, here's the gist: this chapter is short because the next one is going to be big and long and I refuse to break it up. I love you lovely LARPing llamas and I cherish and desire your reviews. I hate law school for interfering with my fanfiction. You all are keeping me alive. Finals are coming up and I'm panicking. Thank you for reading. You give me the strength to go on living in a world where I will probably end up at the bottom of my class. Dean and Sam have nothing on my angst. Dead mother? Dead father? Well, I have four-hour essay tests! So ha! Quit yer whinin' and get back to looking sexy on my TV screen. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**December 21**

Friday evening, Sam gets a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Sam. It's Castiel Goodwin."

"Yeah, I saw that on the caller ID," Sam says.

"I need help."

"What? What's wrong? Are you okay? What happened?"

"I don't know what to get Dean."

"…. What?"

"For Christmas," Cas explains. "I assumed that you, as his brother, would know what would make a suitable present for him."

"Ahh. Well, you know, I'm sure he'll like anything you get him –"

"He's getting me something expensive, Sam. I've discerned that much. He's being very secretive about it."

"People are generally secretive about Christmas gifts, Cas."

"I don't know what to buy. He won't make a list. The people I've purchased presents for in the past have provided detailed lists. I'm…. I'm not good at coming up with gifts on my own. Do you know what he wants?"

"Cas, I mean – I can tell you what kind of stuff he'll like, generally, but… I think what he'll really want is something you give him, you know, _from you_. He's not gonna care what it is as long as you picked it out for him."

"That doesn't reassure me."

"Look. Tomorrow's Saturday, and Dean will be at the firing range in the morning. Why don't you come shopping with me? I wanted to pick out a few more things for Bobby, anyway. We're both shopping for crotchety old men, so might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"What time?"

…..

So the next morning Sam finds himself alone with Castiel at the mall, most of the awkward silence paved over by frantic shoppers and blaring Christmas jingles over the intercom. Sam hadn't realized until today how few times he's hung out with Cas without Dean to act as a conduit. It's not bad, really, just – strange. It feels like something is missing.

Eventually they end up wandering through the Macy's jewelry department and peek at all the sparkling monstrosities on display, even though neither of them is likely to find what they're looking for amongst the overpriced pearls and overwrought filigree. After a few false starts, Sam strikes up conversation.

"So," he says, "Dean tells me you've joined a book club."

Castiel leans over the plexiglass and suspiciously eyes an aggressive-looking necklace. "Yes. We're reading Jane Eyre."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Wow. Long book. That's cool."

"We're an ambitious club," Cas murmurs, moving along the counter absently. He peers at a collection of watches. "Dean tells me you and Amelia are having relationship problems."

Sam is so surprised that he coughs and laughs at the same time.

Castiel looks at him. "Would you prefer not to speak of it?"

"Uh. Yeah." Sam coughs again. "I would prefer that."

Castiel nods sagely. "Yes. It's much easier to ignore that way."

"I'm not – " Sam checks himself and lowers his voice. "I'm not ignoring it, it's just private."

Cas doesn't respond to that. He simply directs his attention to a display of expensive watches.

Sam sighs and slowly spins a rack of earrings. There's a pair Amelia might like, simple pearl pendants that would complement her smile.

"I'm sorry for prying," Cas says quietly. "It's not my place."

"It's okay," Sam says.

….

Somehow they each end up finding something to satisfy their Christmas obligations and they wander through the mall, neither one wanting to be the first to call it quits. They eventually idle in the food court and buy some sub-par pizza, sitting at a tiny plastic table in uncomfortable metal chairs in a scheme all too reminiscent of a high school cafeteria.

"So," Sam says, lifting his pizza slice. "First Christmas as a free man. You must be excited."

Castiel pokes at his slice with a flimsy plastic fork. "Yes. I must be."

Sam's pizza stops short of his mouth, and he lifts his eyebrows. "You're not?"

Cas gazes at his food and exhales heavily. "Christmas is… a reminder of my old life. It's a time of tradition, family… faith…" He purses his lips slightly. "And on top of it all, there's Dean."

Sam sets down his pizza and wipes his hand on his napkin. "What do you mean?"

Cas looks up, and his mouth twists downward in worry. "It's very important to him that I enjoy the holidays, and I think he's begun to build it up in his mind. I think he's setting high expectations, and… I'm afraid I'll disappoint him."

Sam chuckles.

Cas frowns in confusion.

"Cas, you do _not_ need to worry about Dean's holiday expectations," Sam assures him. "The Winchesters have just about _the_ most bare-bones Christmases you can imagine. Did you know, when we were growing up, our dad once got me a shotgun for Christmas? That was it. A shotgun, and a box of bullets. He didn't even wrap it, just brought it out of the closet on Christmas morning." Sam smiles tightly. "I was nine."

Cas's eyes are wide.

"He meant well, but our father was not religious or sentimental," Sam explains. "So Christmas was sort of… superfluous to him. He gave us things we needed, or that he thought we needed. Bobby's the same way, though he had a better grasp on what we actually wanted. So trust me, the exchanging of gifts in our family is a low-pressure outfit. As long as you thank him for what he got you and give him something in return, he'll be satisfied."

"I don't want my gift to simply placate him," Cas says earnestly. "I want it to make him happy."

Sam feels a familiar twisting in his gut, and he says slowly, "_You_ make him happy, Cas."

Cas stares at Sam, and swallows.

"Cas, are you and Dean…" Sam starts the words, stumbling out of his mouth, and he can't stop them. "Is there something… between…" He can't quite say it, can't quite put the words to form.

"Yes," Castiel says.

The twisting in Sam's gut again, only harder this time, and he asks, "What is it, exactly?"

Cas looks away, to his right, his mouth pulled in tight. "I don't know."

They sit in silence for awhile, the bland chattering of the mallgoers around them like white noise.

"I don't know," Cas says again, "and I don't know how I'll ever know."

And it's funny, because that shouldn't make any sense, but it makes complete sense to Sam. It's the exact same way that he's has felt so many times in the last few weeks that he sits back in his chair and laughs out loud.

"Shit," Sam laughs. "Isn't that the truth. Your whole life everyone says you'll 'just know.' But how the hell am I supposed to know if I know or not?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I have no idea what to do," he admits. "I've been waiting until I was certain, but I'm no longer certain I'll ever _be _certain."

Sam nods. "Me too. I feel like I'm treading water, lately. But I can't keep it up forever, so I guess the question is… sink or swim?"

Cas takes this in, and once again lowers his eyes to his pizza. He abandons his fork and picks up his slice with his hand, and takes a large bite.

Sam takes this as his cue to return to his own food, and they finish their meal with no further discussion of the unsolved dilemma hanging in the air, each tacitly conceding that they will both continue treading as they have before; neither of them will surrender, neither will give up, and neither will let go. Neither one is prepared to quit struggling against the current and peacefully drown.

And Sam thinks maybe… maybe that's his answer.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: _My darlings and loved ones. _

_Allow me to just tell you that I appreciate your patience. I know this chapter was longer getting to you, but trust me - it's the better for it. It's also much longer than my last few updates have been, and if I had my way it would be EVEN LONGER but my inner editor insists that a 12-paragraph exposition on the history of Gregorian chants might be a slightly out-of-character speech for anyone other than PBS filmmaker Ken Burns. Alas, I am a slave to that editor. But I've produced this chapter and I do hope you will like it. I know it's mid-March, but since the story is currently in the throes of the holiday season, your reward for reviewing is Jensen Ackles dressed up like Sexy Santa Claus, with Jared Padalecki costumed as his magical flying moose! Fulfill all your Christmas fetish dreams with these two handsome lads. If you order in the next thirty minutes, you will ALSO receive a sexy Holly Whip and Rudolph's Nose Ball Gag. Offer valid as long as supplies last - call now to place your order!*_

_*All those who call will be placed on the FBI Watchlist. _

_Also, I want to mention that the possessive of "Cas" may be written as Cas' or Cas's. Either is correct, with some grammarians opining that Cas's is more appropriate since Cas is singular. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**December 24, 11:12 p.m. **

It's a long-standing Winchester tradition that Christmas Eve is the best day of the Christmas season. On Christmas Eve, Dad used to haul Dean and Sam up through the mountains to get a taste of snow – being the Pacific Northwest, it was usually the closest thing they could get to a white Christmas. After he died, Sam and Dean tried the mountain hike for nostalgia's sake and ended up in a tavern at 3 in the afternoon in a nearly invisible town called Gold Bar, population 2,075. So, for the past seven years, they've just celebrated Christmas Eve by engaging in an all-day boozefest that culminates with the watching of Die Hard and drunkenly singing carols.

This year, Sam is spending Christmas Eve with Amelia's family.

To be honest, Dean is kinda relieved. He wasn't sure if their tradition would comport with Cas's idea of a proper Christmas, and he was getting a little too old to start binge-drinking before teatime. It's not until he realizes that _Sam and I will probably never do that ever again… _that his heart sinks a little in his chest.

Still, Christmas Eve is Christmas Eve, the best day of the year. Far superior to Christmas itself. So Dean and Cas go out ice-skating, and Cas is freakishly bad at it, and Dean makes fun of him, and then they get dinner at an Italian restaurant called Sella's that makes _fantastic_ calzones the size of your head, and then they go for drinks at a nearby bar that honestly has a way snootier vibe than Dean cares for but it serves good eggnog.

Now they're sitting at the bar and laughing about something, Dean can't exactly remember what. The conversation started with Power Rangers and made its way to Janet Jackon's wardrobe malfunction and _ boy_ these eggnogs are surprisingly strong. Dean watches the way Cas's shoulders have loosened, the way his fingers relax on his mug and his eyes brighten.

"And the young women in the fitting rooms would always ask me what I thought," Cas says, chuckling. He's not drunk, just tipsy, but there's just a slightly different cadence to his voice now, a more lyrical tone. "Me, a teenage boy. As though I understood fashion merely by working in retail!"

Dean rolls his eyes and snorts into his mug. "Cas," he says. "They didn't want your fashion sense. They were probably just flirting with you."

Cas's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Of course, you knucklehead," Dean retorts, jabbing his elbow into Cas's arm. "Jeez. How you ever got hitched is a mystery for the ages."

Cas takes a long thirsty gulp of his eggnog and smacks his lips. "Oh, _she_ pursued _me_. I was merely…" He sets down his mug, and his smile shrinks inward, softening, reflecting. "…. Along for the ride."

Dean nods.

A horrible soulful pop rendition of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" blasts through the admittedly quality speakers of the upscale bar. It's surprisingly crowded for Christmas Eve, and the age range is skewed towards the forties – divorcees, Dean guesses, who didn't get the kids tonight. More than a few cougars have made eyes at him, and a few of them are actually pretty hot; new boobs and lipo will do wonders for your figure. But Dean's not interested. He's spoken for.

Or is he? He doesn't know. He just doesn't know.

Cas is talking again, Dean realizes, and he tunes back in. "What was that?"

"We should go," Cas repeats, "if we're going to watch Die Hard."

Dean slides off his barstool and reaches for his wallet. "Let's close up the tab, then."

They settle their accounts and the bartender calls them a cab, and as they make their way to the door Dean can't help but look up at the sprig of plastic mistletoe pinned there. _An invitation_. He glances over to Cas and sees his eyes are turned upward too, fixed on the decoration.

Then they flick down toward the ground, avoiding Dean.

It may be an invitation, but not from Cas. Dean pushes the door open, and a little bell jingles. "After you."

The air outside is bracing and cold, the sky black with nighttime clouds. The orange streetlamp shines down on the sidewalk outside the bar, and Dean and Cas huddle inside its halo as though it's somehow warmer there, in the light, where the shadows are sharper and smaller and thin.

Cas's hands are buried deep in the pockets of his wool jacket. He speaks quietly. "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings."

Dean squints. "What?"

Cas glances back to the entrance of the bar. "The bell. On the door. It's a line, from _It's a Wonderful Life._"

Dean shrugs. "Never seen it, actually."

"It was one of my favorites." Cas smiles wistfully and pulls his hands out, rubbing them together and blowing on them. "I haven't watched it in years."

Just up the street, Dean sees a yellow taxi pull up to the curb.

"C'mon, that's our ride!" Without thinking he grabs Cas by the hand and tugs him along, his palm flush against Cas's warm palm, heady with excitement and fear because they're headed home, and when they get there –

His arm yanks short.

Cas has stopped, right in the middle of the sidewalk, and he's looking toward the brick exterior of the building. A lumpy dirty gray sleeping bag is crumpled against the wall, almost invisible in the darkness. Peeking out from the cinched top of the sleeping bag is a grimy face, dark eyes, a mustache and stained gray beard.

Cas slips his hand from Dean's and reaches for his pocket. He pulls out his wallet.

The sleeping bag shifts as the man sits up, eyes glittering hungrily.

Cas walks over and pulls a bill out of his wallet – a twenty. "It's all I have on me," he says. "Merry Christmas."

The sleeping bag rustles, and a trembling hand snakes out to snatch up the bill. "Thank you, friend," the man says with a rasping voice. "Merry Christmas, God bless ya."

Cas nods, pockets his wallet, and walks back to Dean – and walks right past him, toward the taxi.

Dean is frozen to the spot for a moment, then darts to catch up with him. "Cas," he warns, "that was dangerous. Don't go flashing cash around like that in the middle of the night."

Cas stops and turns back to him. "I had no choice."

Dean frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I could not have acted otherwise," Cas says, his eyes shining bright and his cheeks flushed with liquor and cold. "I had to. I would have given him more if I could. Don't you see?"

"Sure," Dean agrees, "Christmas spirit and all that, but –"

"No. It's more than that." He exhales a foggy breath, and then looks Dean straight in the eye, speaking slowly and deliberately. "He and I are bound together. We are both human. We are related to each other, however distantly. We are family. And as a human family, we _must_ help each other… or we lose our human-ness. We _must_."

Dean gazes at him for a long moment, a slow squeeze of affection constricting in his chest.

"Dean." Cas sighs and claps his hand to Dean's shoulder, shaking his head. "I think I've had too much to drink."

"I love you," Dean blurts.

Cas freezes, his hand clasped tight.

"I – I just need to tell you now," Dean stammers. "I'm nuts about you. As a person, as a friend, and… everything else. Because the truth is – I got you out of the house today for a reason." He swallows. "I was having your present delivered. Bobby helped, he's in on it. A-and the reason I'm telling you is because I think you're either gonna like it, or… you're really gonna hate it."

Cas's forehead wrinkles in consternation.

"So, whatever happens…" Dean's heart is hammering about a thousand miles an hour now, drowning out the sound of his own voice. "I want you to know that… I love you."

The taxi driver honks his horn.

Cas gives Dean one more long look, and then turns back to the taxi. Dean follows, and they get into the cab and ride home.

….

The door to the house creaks loudly, drawing attention to the silence and the darkness.

Dean steps inside and flips the lightswitch, his ribs too tight to actually breathe. "It should be in the living room," he says.

Castiel follows him inside, glancing around warily. He unbuttons his coat and shrugs it off, hanging it on the rack by the door.

Dean tugs his coat off as an afterthought, too busy concentrating on watching Cas's every move and making it appear as though he's _not_ watching Cas's every move.

Cas walks slowly toward the living room, with Dean following right behind; from the hallway, the lights on the Christmas tree cast a rosy glow across the room, and an amber softness spreads across the ceiling from the plastic star at its peak. The scent of pine has permeated every crevice of the house and it only grows stronger as they approach the room. Cas turns the corner, and then… he sees it.

"Merry Christmas," Dean whispers.

It's a piano.

A dark, gleaming wooden upright piano, freshly polished and tuned and nestled next to the tree. The lid has been flipped up and there's a songbook of Christmas carols propped up on its music stand, with a cheerful little drawing of a glass tree ornaments on the cover, and next to the piano is a matching seat upholstered with soft black suede.

Cas walks to the instrument, and gently runs his fingers over the cream-colored keys. His back is turned to Dean. He lowers his head and says nothing.

Dean is afraid to exhale, afraid to move, afraid to discover he's just gambled everything on a foolish impulse.

Cas is still silent. He presses down on one of the keys, and it makes a soft _plink._

Dean carefully walks toward him, his footsteps quiet on the carpet. "What do you think?"

For a moment Cas ducks his chin to his chest, baring the nape of his neck, his shoulders curving inward.

Dean swallows.

Then Cas takes a deep breath, and he turns to face Dean, his hand still on the keys. His eyes are red and bright. "Thank you."

Dean's heart starts beating again.

Cas gazes at him, and blinks quickly. "I have a gift for you too, under the tree."

There's about a million fluid ounces of relief and joy rushing through Dean's veins and tingling through his body and he never wants to move from this place, this moment, this feeling, but he says, "You want me to open it now?"

Cas goes to retrieve the present, bending down and reaching toward the back where he'd "hidden" it. Really, Dean's been eyeing it for days, trying to figure out what it could possibly be. It's a medium-sized square package, wrapped in plain red paper and topped with a small white bow.

Dean rips off the bow on sticks it on Cas's head, which Cas does not appreciate, and then carefully unwraps the present and opens the unlabeled box.

It's a watch, a gold wristwatch, a _nice _watch, the kind with all kinds of smaller dials nested inside the larger one to tell you what time it is in 3 different countries, with a black face and precise gold hands and the name of someone who Dean is sure is a _very_ important designer tastefully leafed under the numbers. There's no way that Cas spent less than a couple grand on this.

"Wow," Dean says. "Wow, Cas – thank you."

Cas watches him anxiously, his mouth small and his eyes darting to different points on Dean's face. "You think it's impersonal."

"No, not at all," Dean assures him, sliding the watch out of its case. "It's awesome, Cas, I love it." It slides smoothly on his wrist, cold to the touch, and he closes the clasp.

"I know that a watch is a trite gift," Cas says, worry still tinging the edge of his voice, "but I thought that perhaps… between us, a – a timepiece might be more meaningful."

The second hand ticks forward effortlessly, and Dean realizes it's already been set to the correct time. 11:54 a.m.

It's almost Christmas.

"Because of time – time lost, and time regained…" Cas is pink in the cheeks now, and he makes a small noise of frustration in the back of his throat. He fists his hands and mutters, "It sounded better in my head."

"It's perfect," Dean says, his own face bright, unable to keep from smiling. "Cas, it's perfect. Stop fretting. You're gonna make _me_ start fretting."

Cas smiles softly back, and the moment wraps around the two of them with a tangible warmth.

Then Cas sits back down at the piano, glancing back and forth at the keys, and then back to Dean. "Should I…" He clears his throat. "What should I play?"

"Something Christmassy," Dean suggests.

Cas considers, and nods.

He doesn't flip through the songbook, or even open it. Instead, he just presses his fingers into the keys and begins to play, a lilting haunting melody that seems familiar that Dean can't place; slow, and simple, but somehow melancholy, bittersweet and tender and pleading all at once.

"I don't think I know this one," Dean admits.

"It's 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel,'" Cas tells him, slowing the music and softening the notes to hinted murmurs. "One of my favorite carols."

"Who's Emmanuel?"

"It's another name for Jesus," Cas explains. "It means, 'God with us.'"

"Oh." Dean rubs his elbow. "It sounds kinda… sad, for a carol."

Cas nods. "It's not really a Christmas song. It's an Advent song – for the days before Christmas, before Christ comes. When the world is waiting…"

He sings the lyrics quietly, a little off-key but a rough approximation of the tune.

"_O come, o come, Emma-a-anuel/ and ransom captive I-i-israel/ that mourns in lonely e-exile here/ until the son of God appear. Rejoice, rejoice, Emma-a-anuel shall come to thee, o I-i-israel." _

Castiel plays through the song again, soft and measured and heavy, but slowly building, until he comes to the triumphant crescendo pounding into the keys _Rejoice! Rejoice…_ and descending into the denouement, the trickle back into tension and melancholy.

For some reason, the little hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up.

Cas ends on a final, lingering note that hangs in the air of the room.

"That's why it was my favorite," he says, his eyes on the keys and his voice low. "It's about hope, and faith, and patience. It's about… believing light will come when you are still in the dark."

Suddenly Dean pictures the last six Christmases that Cas celebrated, in a cold gray builiding in an isolated cell, alone and hated and condemned for life, laying on his bunk in his orange jumpsuit with his eyes wide open, and wondering if he could just this once allow himself the painful indulgence of a brief moment of hope, and perhaps in a spasm of weakness he pleaded in a whisper, _O come o come Emmanuel…_

Dean sucks in a breath, and finds it more difficult than he anticipated. "Christ, Cas," he croaks. He rests his hand on Cas's shoulder, and squeezes it.

Cas reaches up his hand, and places it on top of Dean's.

They both close their eyes.

They remain clasped together like that for a long while. In a different house on Christmas Eve, between different people, someone spying in the window might mistake such silence for a moment of prayer. But in this house, between these two people, it would be apparent to anyone who saw them that they were communing not with God but with each other, the raw honesty of their touch bleeding into their bodies, the devotion and need and reverence and trembling fear painted on their faces in vibrant colors.

What happens next happens without words, and it needs no words.

Castiel stands up, and cups his hands around Dean's face. He pauses a beat, their eyes locked, his face displaying mixture of trepidation and want; then Dean's breath catches as Cas leans in and slowly presses their lips together, unhurried and gentle. Dean hesitates for a moment, and then tilts his head and kisses back, his nose bumping against Castiel's and their mouths growing bolder. As they kiss Dean slides his arms under Cas's and draws him closer, curving his body around him, and Cas's fingers card through his hair.

Then Dean's foot knocks against a leg of the piano seat and he stumbles sideways momentarily, nearly taking Cas with him. Dean catches himself on the seat and barely manages not to fall over entirely, swearing at the thing while Cas laughs heartily and devoid of all sympathy. Dean rights himself indignantly and stalks toward the hallway, only to be caught by the arm and pushed up against the entranceway as Cas kisses him energetically, enthusiastically, a chuckle in his throat.

Dean kisses back and grabs Cas's hips, dragging their bodies against each other and relishing how fucking satisfying it feels, an invisible itch finally being scratched, and the way Cas's breathing gets heavy and he lightly bites Dean's lip, and Dean's not fucking responsible for the desperate little sound he makes, he's just not.

Which is why his next thought, although true, is a horrible horrible thought.

"Cas," he pants, putting his hand to Cas's collarbone and pushing him back. "Cas. Wait."

Cas's eyebrows knot together and he stares a little too long at Dean's lips before it sinks in, and he looks up. "What?"

"Cas, we've been – we've been drinking," Dean says. "Maybe we should slow down. I just don't –" He swallows. "I want this. I just don't ever want this to be something we feel bad about later. For any reason."

Cas stares at him with something akin to outrage.

"I'm not saying we will!" Dean protests. "I'm just saying, I want it to happen… right, you know? I don't want to screw it up just because I want it so bad. We'll both be here tomorrow, so let's not – rush it."

Cas glares a little longer, and then exhales heavily. "The worst part is that you're right," he mutters.

"Welcome to my world," Dean says with a smirk. "The wonderful world of waiting."

"Can I at least sleep in your bed?" Cas asks. "I'm not inclined to stop touching you any sooner than I have to."

Dean smiles and a giddy shiver races up his spine. "Of course. Why not? Half the time you're in there against my will."

Twenty minutes later they fall asleep in Dean's bed fully clothed, neither trusting himself with even partial nudity, Cas's arm draped over Dean's back and their feet touching, tucked in for a long winter's nap.

….

**Christmas Day, 9:34 a.m. **

When Dean wakes up, Cas is already gone from the bed. The spot he left behind isn't even warm anymore, but that makes sense – Cas usually wakes up first. Dean stretches and puts on his slippers; as he becomes more lucid and awake, he starts to think about the numerous ways in which he could proposition Cas. Would it be appropriate to solicit morning sex in this type of situation? Would it be more polite to hold off for a nooner? Or would he have to – God forbid – wait until it was nighttime again?

Dean walks to the kitchen with a spring in his step, whistling Jingle Bells to himself. He spots Cas sitting with his back to him at the kitchen table. "Merry Christmas, Cas!"

That's when he realizes that Cas is sitting very still, and very silent. The phone is sitting by his right hand.

"Cas." Dean walks around so he can see his face. "What is it?"

Cas's face is like a blank slate, marble, a stone. His eyes are glued to the phone. "It's Daphne."

Dean stops.

He reaches instinctively to the chair back next to him, readying himself.

"I called her to wish her merry Christmas, perhaps leave a message," Cas says, his voice flat and inflectionless. "Her mother answered. It seems that… Daphne is very ill, and has been for some time. She thought I knew."

Dean's mouth goes dry. "How ill?"

For the first time, Cas looks up, and meets his eyes. "It's cervical cancer. Genetic. They didn't catch it soon enough. At this point, they're… making her comfortable."

"Cas." Dean grips the chair. "Cas, I'm so sorry."

"Dean." Cas's mouth draws into a tight line, and his adam's apple bobs. "I need to go to Michigan."


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: _So! Finals are over. (Yaaaaaaaay!)_

_I think I did terribly. (yaaaaaaay)_

_But at least I only have to go through finals week seven more times. (…. yay?)_

_Anyway, thank you all to everyone who reviewed last week. You make me believe that I have a fallback career as a romance novelist should I ever flunk out of law. Funny story – I was actually on the Harlequin website the other day giving serious thought to trying to pen a romance novel. I mean, I want to write something actually good, but that takes years; I could write schlock and make money NOW! And I could publish it all under a pseudonym. My only roadblocks are 1) their requirements for what a story must entail in each genre of romance novel are SUPER specific and pretty much all insist that the hero be "totally attractive" to the heroine, aka she never once thinks he's weird or a jerk or gross or whatever, which I find to be bullshit, and 2) I'm used to writing man-on-man. I mean, theoretically stuff from a female perspective should be easier, but I find it… more personal? Like, say if you write a sex scene where the heroine is like, "Hooray, here comes the best part of any sex act – the lime jello!" and then it turns out that everyone thinks lime jello is weird and totally the worst thing in sex. You can't do what you do with slash, which is laugh it off and be like, "Oh, I guess I read that somewhere unreliable! Silly me…" No, now everyone knows you're a lime pervert. Sigh._

_Anyway! Enjoy the chapter. I accidentally stayed up until 5 a.m. writing it. I think I drank too much caffeine today! SPRING BREAK WOOOOO_

_I hope you like it._

* * *

**Christmas Day, 5:27 p.m.**

Bobby doesn't know what's going on with the boys, but _something _sure as hell is.

It's Christmas dinner and everyone's acting like a bunch of scared cats. Sam and Amelia keep looking everywhere but at each other, Cas and Dean are clenched so tight it makes Bobby's teeth hurt, and the two brothers themselves are oddly out of sync – bumping into each other and apologizing profusely and apologizing for apologizing. Some holiday! Thank God Jody seems to be even-keeled like always, though she glances at Bobby every so often to confirm that she hasn't lost her marbles.

Bobby doesn't know what's going on. But then, Jody's not the only detective in the room; this old fox can put two and two together.

"So," Bobby finally says, halfway through an awkward round of appreciative murmurs about the ham, "Let me see if I can suss out what's going on here."

Four people at the table freeze.

"Sam and Amelia." Bobby squints and scratches his beard. "You two have been fighting. Not sure about what, but I can guess it's probably something stupid and trivial like marriage or religion or children. It's gotta be, because you two have been gaga over each other for the better part of two years, and I have never seen two lovesick puppies like you kids get worked up over anything less." Bobby snorts. "The honeymoon's over, folks. Now comes the tough part. So suck it up and quit stewing, because it's Christmas and I can promise that ya ain't gonna solve it today."

Amelia clears her throat and looks down at her plate in embarrassment, while Sam glares fiercely at Dean.

Dean throws his hands up. "I didn't say anything!"

"And you two!" Bobby turns in his chair and rounds on Dean and Cas. "Not quite sure what's got you so on edge, but maybe it has something to do with the piano I helped deliver."

At the word _piano_, Dean and Cas glance at each other momentarily, and then their eyes both skitter away nervously.

Bobby narrows his eyes. "Wait. What was that?"

"Nothing, Bobby, it's nothing." Dean rubs his temple. "We're fine, okay? Cas just got some bad news this morning."

Jody puts down her knife and fork. "What news?"

"It's not important," Cas mumbles.

"It's his ex-wife," Dean says. "Daphne. She's… she's in a bad way. Cancer." He lowers his gaze to his plate, and his mouth twists around his words, as though they're unfamiliar and strange. "Cas should be with her. He's going to Michigan."

Stunned silence rings around the table.

Cas looks to Dean, and he says, "I have to go. I owe it to her." His eyes don't waver from Dean.

Dean just nods toward his food. And then, his right arm moves slightly in a way that Bobby recognizes from a hundred other moments and the way Cas's mouth tightens and his eyes shine, and he realizes –

Dean is squeezing Cas's hand under the table.

Bobby the Detective has just solved the mystery.

Well, shit.

"When are you going?" Amelia asks with wide eyes, leaning forward.

Cas finally tears his eyes away from Dean – and then they flicker back a moment, and then he drags his attention back to Amelia. "One a.m., tonight. It was the only flight I could get in the next four days. Everything is booked."

Sam slumps back in his chair, and runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Cas. This is – I am so sorry."

"Why didn't you want to tell us?" Jody asks, concerned and hurt. Bobby knows she's taken Cas into the fold more than anyone else in the family besides Dean; these are her boys.

Cas picks up his fork and nudges his sweet potatoes. "I wanted to wait until after dinner," he says. "Cancer tends to dull the appetite."

Everyone looks down at their plate numbly and remembers they had been eating.

Cas looks around the table, and blinks. "That was a joke."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence.

Then Dean chuckles, and looks at Sam. Sam starts to chuckle, and the chuckle turns into a laugh. Amelia snorts and giggles and Jody can't help but laugh too, and then an irrepressible guffaw bursts from Bobby, and they all dissolve into a cacophony of wild-eyed merriment.

That's how it goes. If you're not laughing, you're crying. And there's just no crying allowed on Christmas.

…

**8:41 p.m. **

Dean and Cas finally arrive home, and Dean sighs as he closes the door behind him. "So, I guess we should load up the car now. I'm glad you packed earlier. It's a long drive to the airport, and -"

"Dean."

Dean shrugs off his overcoat and hangs it up. "– they say you should get there two hours before your flight leaves, and I'm guessing Christmastime, security is playing whack-a-mole with all the vacationers and packages and boxes labeled fragile –"

"Dean."

Dean looks over.

Cas is standing with his coat sitting in a pile on the floor next to him, his belt and tie strewn toward the kitchen, and his shirt untucked and unbuttoned. He's also staring at Dean with what Dean has just this moment decided to call "crazy sex eyes."

"Dean," Cas says again, an extra gravelly edge to his voice. "I'm on a tight schedule. Let's not waste time."

A weird strangled noise forces its way out of Dean's throat. It's only half panic. The other half is the vocal equivalent of crazy sex eyes.

Cas tilts his head slightly and squints a little. "Are you – you sound ill –"

"No," Dean blurts. "I'm fine. My room. Let's – go there."

Cas's nostrils flare, and he takes a deep breath. "I can't promise I'll make it that far."

….

**8:42 p.m., the Kitchen**

Cas throws Dean onto the kitchen table and kisses him wildly, madly, frantically, taking the air from his lungs and the sanity from his mind. Dean kisses him back and pants against his skin, groans against his throat, rocking their bodies together and squeezing, rubbing, pressing and letting the pressure consume him.

Then he remembers.

"Cas," he grunts, "the bedroom. This is the kitchen."

Cas makes a deeply frustrated noise.

….

**8:49 p.m., the Hallway**

"CasCasCasCas," Dean shouts, "Cas, no, leave – shit – leave the pants on!"

Cas yanks Dean's zipper down and growls a little, he fucking _growls_ like a fucking _animal_.

"Holy shit," Dean groans, his head lolling against the wall, his eyes landing on the bedroom door that is oh so far away. "We're never gonna make it, are we?"

"We were never going to make it," Cas pants, pausing to lick and bite the underside of Dean's jaw and _Christ_. "The bedroom was never in my itinerary."

Dean fists a hand in Cas's hair and yelps, "You have a _sex itinerary?_"

…...

**8:57 p.m., the Hallway Floor**

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Cas. Fuck. Cas. Cas. I'm gonna come. Shit."

"Dean… uhngh, unh, unhnn, Dean…"

"Cas. No. Shit. Stop."

"Unnnn– huh?"

"Cas. C'mon. Bedroom –"

"DEAN."

"But the bedr-"

"DEAN! SHUT. UP. AND FUCK ME."

"…. ohmygodyou'resofuckinghot oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhmyGOD, UNGH, YES, CAS! CAS!"

"Dean, unn, ahhh, ahh, ahhh –

"C'mon, c'mon, you sexy sonofabitch –"

"Ahhhh, ahh, ahh, _ahh, ahhh, Dean!"_

"Oh my God… holy shit…"

"Nnnnnnn…"

"That was… holy shit… shit…"

"Right… on schedule…"

…..

**9:07 p.m., still the Hallway Floor, but a Different Patch of Carpet **

Dean and Cas kiss softly, entertwined and quiet. Then, reluctantly, Dean breaks away and sighs.

Cas slides his thumb gently back and forth, his hand cupped along Dean's neck. "What?"

Dean looks at the ceiling. "You're not coming back, are you?"

"What are you talking about?" Cas asks, frowning.

Dean meets his eyes. "You didn't buy a return ticket."

"…. I don't know how long I'll be staying. I'm planning for a week, but it could be shorter."

"So, you don't think…." Dean trails off. "Never mind."

"I don't think _what?_" Cas asks pointedly.

"You know how it'll go." Dean clears his throat and stares off into space. "You won't mean for it to happen. You'll call me a week from now, saying you're going to stay a little longer, because she needs you right now. And that'll be true. And then maybe you'll start to think about it, and maybe she takes a little turn for the better, but the doctors say that's just sign she's about to go and you decide – hey, maybe I should just stay until, you know, the end. You did promise, right, all those years ago – for better or for worse, richer or poorer, sickness and in health. You start to think about your marriage vows. You think about your marriage. You talk to Daphne about your marriage. And you end up staying a couple weeks, maybe a month, and remembering why you got married, and who you used to be, and the reason you ever got divorced. Namely…" Dean swallows. "Me."

Cas's face falls. "Dean."

"I was the driving force that drove you apart," Dean continues, "and now you'll never get that time back, not ever. I'm the reason you lost your marriage, I'm probably the reason you don't have children. You'll think about all that stuff, and you'll watch the woman you love die. And when you get back…." He shrugs. "Nothing will ever be the same. And you'll leave."

"Dean." Cas pushes himself up on his elbow. "That's not what's going to happen. How could you think that, after what we just –"

"After our crazy sex?" Dean asks softly. "After frantic, desperate sex that felt an awful lot like a last chance?"

Cas closes his mouth, and his eyes droop downward.

"It's okay though," Dean says, even though he's pretty sure it will never be okay again. "I want you to know that… you don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine." It's a lie, but a necessary one. Cas needs this. It would be so easy to ask him to stay, and he _would_ stay – just a few of the right words from Dean, and he would – but he needs this. He deserves to reconcile with Daphne before she passes.

_If I loved him less, I wouldn't be able to let him go. _

Suddenly Dean understands everything Amelia said to him.

Castiel sits up, and he gazes down at Dean with an unreadable expression. "It's not going to happen, Dean. I promise you."

"Cas." Dean sighs. "Like I said, I know you won't _mean_ for it to happen. It's going to happen whether you want it to or not. I just want you to know it's okay when it does."

There is a beat of silence.

"Dean." Suddenly Cas's voice is like granite, like steel on flint, icy and harsh. "Do you realize how insulted I am?"

Dean scrambles to sit up. "What?!"

"Do you trust me?" Cas asks sharply.

"It's not a matter of –"

"Do you _trust me_?" he demands.

Dean swallows his retort. "Yes."

"I just promised you that I'm not going to leave you," Cas says. "It's not a promise I make lightly. You've chosen to disregard it out of some misplaced sentiment of sacrifice. Either you trust me to keep my word, or you don't, but we cannot have a relationship without trust. Do you understand me?"

Dean nods, and for some reason becomes acutely aware of his own nakedness. He's just a man lying naked in a hallway, completely exposed, unable to hide.

Cas slides his hand up Dean's arm. "I care about you, and I'm committed to you. I have been since the day you saved my life." He looks Dean in the eye. "That's all that really matters in this world, Dean: care, and commitment. The rest is simply nuance. Do you care about me?"

"You know I do."

"Are you committed to me?"

Dean leans forward, and presses a kiss to Cas's lips, slow and soft. Then he breathes, "Of course."

Cas presses his forehead to Dean's and closes his eyes. "I love you," he murmurs. "I would not have made love to you if I didn't. I waited for so long because I wanted to be _certain_, and I waited and waited until I realized… that I already had my answer. I was waiting because I was terrified of hurting you, and I was terrified of hurting you because even the idea of it is… almost physically painful to me." Dean can hear the click of his throat as he swallows. "I'm coming back. I promise."

"I'm glad to hear that," Dean whispers. "But I… I don't want you to be with me just because I'll be hurt if you're not, you know? I don't want it to be like that."

"It's not. Believe me." Cas's hands settle over Dean's, and he clasps them tight. "I care so deeply for you, Dean. You cannot imagine how deeply."

His words fill Dean's chest with a warm, expanding sensation, and Dean tilts his chin up and kisses him again, connecting with him so completely and honestly that he can perceive nothing else but Cas; and for one frighteningly incredible moment the emotional high lifts him into a sensation far beyond any happiness he's ever experienced, any drug he's ever dabbled with, and any sex he's ever had, and all he can think is

_This is it._ _T__his is what we are. We're this.__  
_

_This. _

Then all too soon it subsides, and he's left with just the warm afterglow, the spots in your eyes after a blinding flash of light.

He pulls his lips from Cas's and chuckles. "Nah, I'm pretty sure I'm like… ten times more in love than you are. Maybe twenty."

"It's not a contest," Cas says.

Dean smirks. "That's what losers always say."

Cas is unconvinced. "If it _were_ a contest, I would be winning."

"Says the guy flying to Michigan. I'm the faithful woman you're leaving behind, wearing a yellow ribbon and all that shit. I get so many more points for that."

"I didn't realize you were a woman. I suppose I was distracted by your penis."

"See? Already the sarcasm. The bloom is off the rose for you, Cas. My love is definitely stronger than yours. And handsomer, even, some might say."

"Then clearly you've been polling drunks."

"Of course I have, Cas. They're my people."

…

**10:51 p.m. **

Dean pulls up to the terminal and hauls Cas's suitcase out of the trunk. "What the hell did you put in here? This thing's got the atomic weight of a dying sun."

"I packed some books," Cas answers, climbing out of the passenger seat.

Dean hefts the luggage onto its tiny tottering wheels. "Feels more like you packed the entire book club."

Cas neatly pulls up the handle and tilts the suitcase to its optimal rolling angle. "I haven't flown in over a decade," he says. "I understand security is more thorough now."

Dean shudders. "I wouldn't know. I avoid planes at all costs. Flying steel deathtraps, if you ask me."

Cas glares.

"But – but not for you!" Dean tries weakly. "You'll be fiiiiine."

"Come here," Cas mutters. "Give the doomed man a farewell kiss for the sake of poignancy."

Dean laughs and pulls Cas in by the lapel and kisses him. It's a long kiss, the kind of kiss that lingers in doorways at the end of a night, the kind of kiss that makes doormen cough and elevator doors ding, the kiss that pauses for breath at the end of the moment but the lips stay touching, waiting, hoping, praying for another minute more.

Finally, Cas takes his bag by the handle, and steps back from Dean. "Very poignant," he says. "I'll see you soon."

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets. "Call me or something when you get there. Just so I know you're alive."

Cas nods. "I will."

Dean steps back toward the car. "Merry Christmas!"

Cas waves. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

He watches Cas walk into the terminal, and forces himself to shake off the uneasy shiver at the back of his neck.

….

**December 26, 7:22 a.m. **

Dean's phone buzzes on his night stand.

Dean doesn't wake up.

…..

**December 26, 7:32 a.m.**

Dean's phone buzzes again.

Slowly he stirs into consciousness, a groggy haze plastered over his mind like gauze. He blearily fumbles at the phone and flips it open. "Cas?"

"Dean. It's Jody."

Dean blinks his eyes hard and tries to concentrate. "Jody? What's up?"

"Wake up, Dean. Get dressed."

Dean sits up, every muscle in his body tensing. "Jody, what's going on?"

Someone pounds at the front door.

"Something's happened, Dean. You've got visitors coming your way."

The person at the door pounds again, four times.

"They're already here," Dean hisses. "Jody, you have three seconds to tell me what the fuck is going on! Who's at my front door?"

"Answer the door, Dean!" Jody exclaims. "I'm not supposed to even be talking to you so just answer the goddamn door!"

"Mr. Winchester?" a woman calls, her voice muffled through the house. "Mr. Winchester?"

Dean hangs up on Jody, grabs his robe, yanks his arms through the sleeves and throws open the door, squinting in the early morning sunlight. "Hello?"

A woman and a man are standing on his front porch, both in gray suits. The woman is older and authoritative looking, attractive in a blunt way with curled brown hair, and the man is a weaselly skinny thing with a big nose, wide ears, and a goofy smile.

"Mr. Winchester." The woman reaches into her pocket and pulls out a badge; she flashes it at him. "I'm Special Agent Ellen Harvelle and this is my partner, Agent Garth Fitzgerald."

The man sticks out his hand and smiles harder. "You can call me Garth."

Dean doesn't shake it.

"We're here on behalf of the FBI because your friend Castiel Goodwin isn't answering his phone," Agent Harvelle explains. "Do you have any other contact numbers for him?"

"No, he – he prob'ly turned it off because of the plane," Dean says, raising a hand to shade his eyes.

Harvelle doesn't seem surprised. "His plane landed an hour ago."

"How do you know that?" Dean demands. "What're you calling him for?"

Harvelle and Garth exchange glances. "We just have some questions for him related to an investigation we've just opened," Garth says. "We'd like to come in and ask you some questions as well, if that's alright."

"No, it's not alright," Dean retorts. "I want to know what you're investigating, and why Cas is involved, and why the hell you're on my doorstep at seven in the morning, and I'm not going to answer any of your questions until you answer mine!"

Agent Harvelle steps forward, a slightly challenging set to her jaw and an upward quirk of her mouth. "Well, Mr. Winchester, if you insist." She tucks her badge back into her jacket pocket. "Last night around midnight, a body was found near Lake Madeleine. From the level of decomposition it appears it was there for about a month."

The air suddenly becomes very, very cold.

"It was the body of a four year old girl," Harvelle continues, ticking off on her fingers, "her body was mutilated in a manner matching the Lake Madeleine murders for which Castiel Goodwin was prosecuted, and we have DNA evidence linking Mr. Goodwin to the body." She narrows her eyes and steps forward again, putting her face only two or three inches from Dean's. "Now, based on that evidence alone I could take out a warrant for his arrest right now, and in fact I may do so in the near future, and the only thing stopping me is my overly giving nature and the fact that so far Castiel Goodwin has done a remarkable job of wriggling out of the system. If you try and make a nuisance of yourself I would be _completely_ within my rights to haul your ass into court for obstruction of justice." She crosses her arms. "So either you allow me and my partner inside and answer our questions, or you can answer them from a cell."

Dean's hand is tight on the doorframe, so tight that the blood has drained from his fingertips. The color seems to have drained out of the world, too, everything flat and gray and distant.

None of this makes sense.

"There's a mistake," he croaks. "There's been a mistake."

Garth steps forward with a worried look and glances between Harvelle and Dean. "Say, I think this is a lot to dump on a guy first thing in the morning," he says apologetically, clapping a hand to Dean's shoulder. "Sorry, buddy. How about we go inside and have some coffee?"

Dean fumbles for the phone in his robe pocket. "Cas, I need to call Cas."

Harvelle sighs. "He's not answering. We've got some friends in Michigan who are going to pick him up."

Dean's mouth is chalky, dry, his throat won't swallow and his words are getting stuck. "Don't arrest him, please. You don't know him. This is – it would kill him. Please. Please."

"C'mon, buddy, let's go inside," Garth says, leading him indoors. "We're just here to talk…"

In fifteen minutes, the rest of the FBI team will arrive to search the premises from top to bottom, cover to cover, every nook and cranny, and they will document and photograph everything they find, no matter how insignificant; they will take a fine tooth comb to each one of their belongings and leave no stone unturned.

Castiel Goodwin is suspected of murder in the first degree.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: _Happy Easter, everyone! You know, it's funny – I thought spring break was going to be a greaaaaat opportunity for me to catch up on my fic and write thousands upon thousands of words and surprise you all with my proliferousness. However, it turns out that sitting on a couch with family members on either side of you peering over your shoulder is NOT a situation conducive to writing gay romance thrillers. So, this chapter is shorter than I intended, but hopefully it will hold you over until next week. _

_I'm already behind on my homework, and the new quarter hasn't even started yet. FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU UUUUUUUUUUU _

_Finally, vis-à-vis last chapter – sometimes I love being evil. There's not much more satisfying in this world than watching your readership collectively lose its shit. Thanks for all the reviews, and sorry for destroying everything you love. The bad news is that there's just so, so much left to destroy, and it's just so, so fun. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**December 26, 7:44 a.m. **

Dean's sitting at his kitchen table, his flat maple kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hand. He hasn't lifted it. He's sitting in his undershirt and boxers and a robe across two FBI agents in gray suits with notepads and the air tastes sweet, sickly sweet and tangy like the taste of a copper penny in your mouth.

It's kind of a long story how he got here.

"Can you tell us where Castiel went?"

"You know where he went," Dean mumbles. "You just told me so. You said his flight landed."

"Can you tell us where Castiel went?" Agent Harvelle repeats.

"Michigan." The coffee in his hand is warm. It's the only warm part of him. "He went to Michigan to see Daphne. His ex-wife. She's dying."

Silent figures with plastic ID badges and white gloves and paper shoes filter through the rooms, the hallways, lingering by objects and haunting them briefly, opening drawers and sifting through slow as syrup off a spoon. A few have black bars in their hands; they glide the bars close over walls and tables and carpets, casting them in purple light.

"What are they doing?" Dean asks. He knows what they're doing. That can't be what they're doing. "What are those people doing?"

"There's just taking a look around," Garth assures him. "We'll put everything back, just the way it was."

"Please." Dean can feel his grip on reality slipping, his nerve wavering and snapping taut. "There's been some misunderstanding. Call Daphne. She probably knows where he is. She's at Brighton General Hospital."

"We did call her, Dean." Harvelle flips open a folder Dean didn't see her take out. He didn't know she had a folder. "After we spoke to your friend Jody Singer, we looked up Ms. Daphne Allen and spoke to her."

Dean grips the mug tighter, grips the warmth tighter. "What did she say?"

The door slams open. "_Excuse me!_" Sam's voice bellows into the house. "Where is Dean Winchester?"

Ellen stands up. "I'll take care of this."

Sam sweeps into the kitchen like a thundercloud rolling into a valley, his face dark and his eyes flashing. He strides over to Dean and grabs him by the arm, lifting him out of his chair, glaring fiercely at Harvelle and Garth. "My client will not be answering any more questions until he's spoken to his attorney. Do you even have a search warrant?"

Agent Harvelle buttons her blazer and scowls right back. "Of course we have a warrant. And I take it you're his attorney?"

"Even better," Sam growls. "I'm his brother."

Garth's face lights up with pleased surprise. "Sam Winchester! What a coinky-dink. We were about to give you a call next, and here you've saved us the trouble!"

Harvelle rolls her eyes.

"Show me the warrant," Sam demands. "And then you can make an _appointment_ to speak with me and Dean later this afternoon."

Harvelle handily slips a sheaf of paper from her folder. "Here you are. This is all above-board, Sam. We're the FBI, not the CIA."

Garth props his chin on his fist and sighs a little. "It's too bad, really. The CIA gets to go to fun places like Cuba."

"Wait," Dean says. "Wait."

They all turn to look at him.

"She didn't answer my question," he says. "About Daphne."

Harvelle glances to Sam, and then looks back to Dean. "We talked to Ms. Allen, and… she's not in the hospital. She's not even sick."

Dean doesn't even realize that he's speaking aloud until his own words ring through the room. "Don't fucking lie." The mug drops to the tabletop with a loud clatter. "Don't lie to me."

"It's the truth." Harvelle's face actually – softens, somehow, a hue of sympathy stealing over her eyes. "He boarded the plane to Lansing, and now your man Castiel is in the wind. I thought you would know where he really went."

Sam's hand tightens on Dean's arm. "Alright, we're done here."

Dean stays rooted to the spot. "Someone lied to Cas. This is – this is some sort of frame-up. He made a call, Christmas morning. He tried to call her and he reached her mother instead. Pull his phone records!"

"Shut up," Sam hisses as Garth scribbles something down. "Don't say anything right now. We need to talk."

"Did you hear this conversation?" Harvelle asks. "What exactly did he say?"

Sam starts dragging Dean bodily out of the kitchen, but now the numbness under Dean's skin has melted and bubbled into irrational fury. "This is a fucking set-up, I know it!" he shouts. "He's innocent, do you hear me? You don't know a fucking thing about him and he's a fucking _saint_, so if you so much as lay a finger on him I swear to God I'll –"

"Dean!" Sam bellows, yanking him into the living room. "Get a hold of yourself!" The silent investigators scraping at the corners of the moulding exchange glances and cling toward the edges of the room.

"Somebody at Daphne's house told him to come to Michigan!" Dean hollers toward the kitchen. "You look up those records, you hear me? You fucking pull those records!"

Sam slams him up against the wall, pins him there with his arm, claps his other hand over Dean's mouth so tightly it hurts and growls, "As your lawyer, Dean – shut. The fuck. Up."

Dean claws at Sam's arm and, when that doesn't work, he sticks his tongue out and coats Sam's palm with spit.

Sam just flares his nostrils and growls, "Don't you dare bite me."

Dean glowers.

"You are not doing Cas any favors right now," Sam says firmly. "All you're doing is flaunting your emotional bias towards him and feeding the flames. We don't know what's true and what's not at this point. You just told them he called Daphne on Christmas morning. What happens if there's no call on his phone records? Now either you're a liar, or he is. I'm willing to go to bat for Cas, but frankly, with everything that's happened…" Sam exhales out his nose. "Dean, I don't think he's been a hundred percent truthful with us. So just – wait, before you say anything about anything, okay?"

Dean flicks his eyes down to Sam's hand, and looks back up.

Sam lowers his hand, and wipes it on his jeans with a disgusted expression.

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs. "I'm sorry for losing it," he mutters. "But I'm not sorry for what I said. He didn't lie to me, Sam. He didn't. He and I…" Before Dean realizes it, his throat is tightening and the back of his nose is tickling and his voice goes hoarse. "He and I…."

Sam watches him for a minute, a little too knowingly, his nod of acknowledgement a little too sympathetic. And through it all, Dean can see...

He thinks Cas lied.

Then he says, "Grab some of your things, and we'll go to Bobby's. You can take a shower, get dressed, get cleaned up… Then Jody's gonna brief us on what she knows."

….

In the bathroom at Bobby's house, Dean leaves a message on Cas's voicemail. "Hey. Cas. Answer your damn phone. You were supposed to call me. Well, guess what? Since you didn't call me, everything has gone to shit and I'm going out of my goddamn gourd, and the only thing that could make it worse is that you're not _here,_ so… Call me. Call me or I'm re-gifting the piano."

He pauses. "Cas. I know I sound like I'm joking…. But I'm not." He closes his eyes. "Please. If you're alive… call me."

…...

Jody looks as bone-tired as Dean feels, slumped forward on the sofa with her elbows on her knees. "Sometime around midnight last night, maybe a little earlier, they found the body at Lake Madeleine. Little girl named Gabriela Chavez. Gabby. Her fingers and eyeballs removed, ribs broken open, just like the others. They found her on a trail near the public access – somebody called it in on the emergency phone at the public access, screaming hysterically. I notified the FBI. Seemed like the right thing to do at the time, this is all so – so – it's such a nightmare –" She hangs her head and buries her face in her hands.

Bobby puts his hand to her shoulder. "Sweetheart…"

"No, you don't understand." She takes a deep breath and pushes her hands back against her face, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. "It's literally a nightmare I've had. I keep hoping I'm going to wake up."

"I've had it too."

Everyone turns their eyes to Dean.

"I've had a lot of nightmares," Dean says. "I used to have 'em about Cas, when he was locked up, before I knew him. I've had plenty about Lucas. And trust me…" He pulls a bitter smirk, the closest he can come to smart-aleck under the circumstances. "This ain't one of 'em. This is so much worse."

Jody sighs and sits up, her eyes red and puffy. "You're right. It is. Because when the M.E. examined the body, she found a hair clinging to the little girl's leg. And the feds got the DNA analysis back around 7 a.m. this morning – don't ask me how they got it pushed through that fast – and. Well. They had a match."

Sam swallows and nods, and Bobby lowers his eyes to the ground.

Dean laughs.

Once again, everyone's staring at the man of the hour.

"A hair?" he exclaims. "A fucking hair? That's all they've got? That could be – that could be literally anyone on the street. Some copycat killer sees me and Cas sitting on a bench, stops by as soon as we get up, takes a look around, I can tell you from sharing a bathroom that the man _sheds_ –"

"Dean." Jody looks at him, hesitant. "It wasn't just – a hair. It was… body hair. A pubic hair."

Dean's mouth slams shut, and his tongue glues itself to the roof of his mouth.

"They're also bringing in some forensic experts to look at the body, and as we speak they're going through the contents of your house," Jody continues. "I've also heard rumors from folks in corrections that someone's been interviewing Lucas for a book, and God only knows what he's said."

At the mere mention of his name, something deep and instinctive in Dean's gut curls and clenches uncomfortably. "Lucas is involved in this somehow," he says. "I just know it. He's setting Cas up."

Bobby and Sam exchange glances. "He's in jail, Dean," Sam points out. "And this isn't going to exonerate him. His DNA was found on a previous body. Why would he bother framing Cas?"

"I don't know." Dean stands up, and straightens his jacket. "Why don't we go ask him?"


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: _Things I Discovered This Whilst Writing This Chapter _

_1. These characters like to talk. I cannot shut them up for the life of me. In the last four thousand words, I've gotten through about three hours of their lives. At this rate, the story will conclude sometime in 2027._

_2. Whenever one of my ongoing fics gets traffic, people always like to go through the archives and review my older completed stuff. It's funny to see some of the reactions. Reviews for "Bring It On Home" are usually along the lines of "OMG BEST FIC EVER, SHINE ON YOU CRAZY BEAUTIFUL INSANE LOVELY DIAMOND," while reviews for "Chances" are peppered with "this is the saddest excuse for a destiel story on the face of the planet and i am including the story my friend wrote where cas brings dean to orgasm using only his wings and a disconcerting stare." _

_3. I really wish I had more time in my life to devote to my fanfic. I'm really excited about the way this story is shaping up, and the best part is that you guys are excited TOO. I love reading all your reactions and crazy theories – some of them fairly on point, and some of them out in the stratosphere. I will keep working to bring you more story in regular installments, and I hope I continue to entertain you. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**9:21 a.m. **

"I had Bobby call the lawyer who handled Castiel's appeal," Sam says. "Anna Lawrence. She's on vacation in New Mexico right now, but she's flying in as soon as she can."

Dean nods. He's in the passenger seat of Sam's car and sliding his thumb absently along the seatbelt.

"Later this afternoon, we'll go down to the station," Sam says. "I told Harvelle we'd meet her and Garth there. Jody excused herself from the investigation, but they're still utilizing the rest of the county force; they'll be operating out of there until things get sorted out. State police want in on this, so I'm guessing the agents will be moving headquarters soon."

Dean nods again. Then he presses his thumb harder against the seatbelt, letting the taut edge of the strap dig into his skin. "You know, I always used to hate it when suspects would lawyer up."

Sam glances at him quickly, then returns his eyes to the road. "So did Dad."

Dean swallows against the tightening knot in his throat.

"That's probably why I became a defense attorney," Sam admits. "I think growing up I had this fantasy of squaring off in an interrogation room with him, cutting through his macho-man intimidation routine with legal rhetoric, outsmarting him…." He shakes his head and snorts as he pulls into the prison parking lot. "It was stupid."

"I hated being sheriff." God, it feels good to say the words out loud.

Sam parks the car, and stares at Dean. "What?"

Dean grins at the absurdity of it. "I hated being sheriff, Sammy. I loved being a deputy, but as soon as I put on the star – it ruined my life. It was too much. I took the job to heart, and it ruined my life. My relationships, my friendships… well, you saw for yourself."

"You're a workaholic," Sam says quietly. "You just need to find a balance."

"I did find it," Dean says. "The stuff Cas and I do for Jody now… it's the balance."

Sam chews the inside of his lip and looks out the window. "You know that's not true, Dean."

Dean frowns. "Yes it _is_."

"You still drink too much," Sam counters. "You don't have any friends outside your roommate. You haven't had a real romantic relationship with –"

"You know what, this is not the time or place for this discussion," Dean cuts in angrily. "Maybe next Saturday you can draw me up a nice Powerpoint presentation on 'Shit Dean Does Wrong,' but right now we've got work to do."

"I'm not trying to criticize you," Sam shoots back. "I'm just refusing to pretend you've got life all sorted out –"

"I never said I did!" Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and throws it angrily off. "And last time I checked, _hot shot_, you had some sorting to do in your own life!"

Sam's face pulls into an ugly snarl. "You don't know _anything _about what's going on in my life!"

"And whose fault is that?!" Dean exclaims. "Cuz I've been tryin', Sammy, and I can't get jack shit out of you!"

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" Sam unsnaps his seatbelt. "You crack jokes at my expense and throw back a couple of drinks, and that's trying? I can't even _remember_ the last time I had a sober conversation with you, Dean!"

"So this is about me drinking?" Dean demands. "That's the bone you're picking right now? You aren't exactly a teetotaler yourself, pal! And more importantly –"

"I don't have to be a teetotaler, because I can get through a single fucking movie –"

"More _importantly_ –"

" – and I don't wear a flask more often than I wear a tie –"

"Shut up!" Dean shouts. "Shut! Up! And listen!"

Sam finally stops talking.

Dean takes a deep breath, and tries to use an even, steady voice. "More importantly, we don't have time to dig up all the skeletons in the family graveyard right now." He looks out the window, and puts his hand to the door handle. "We need to go into that prison and find out why an insane child-dismembering lunatic is framing my best friend for murder."

Sam looks at Dean, and it's a hard look, an unflinching narrow gaze. "Dean," he says, "if I'm going to be your lawyer, you're going to have to start being a lot more honest with me."

Dean blinks. "What are you talking about?"

Sam takes a deep breath and sighs slowly, resting his wrists on the steering wheel. "I know Cas isn't just your friend."

Dean's entire body pulls tight, and his hand twitches on the door handle before he can stop it.

His instinct is to run. To run out the door and never look back and never slow down and never answer the questions he knows Sam is about to ask, to outrun his pounding heart and the cold sweat beading along his hairline. He wants to deny everything and renounce everyone – there's a lie on his tongue already, a kneejerk quip taking shape where his teeth touch his bottom lip, a ready smirk tugging under the skin of his cheek. The only thing holding him back is everything at stake.

He knows what Sam is going to think, but… he owes it to him. He can't ask his brother to put his reputation on the line without being straight with him.

"You're right," Dean says. "He's more than a friend."

Sam's adam's apple bobs. "How much more?"

"Everything. All of it."

Sam closes his eyes. Dean can see the frustration flare in his nostrils, the anger and disappointment and… betrayal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam asks. "Why did you lie to my face when I asked you if there was something going on?"

"Because there _wasn't_," Dean protests, his face growing hot, "not until – very recently, or I guess… I mean, I guess it was going on before that, but I didn't know it, and…" His words tumble out clumsy and halting, but he forces himself to continue. He drags his hand over his eyes and bows his head and mumbles, "Sam, we slept together for the first time last night."

There is a long, endless stretch of silence.

"Shit," Sam says.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah."

"Seriously, that's… " Sam barks a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "Dean, that is the worst possible alignment of circumstances in the world. We are so fucked."

"No we are not!" Dean snaps. "This doesn't leave this car! Ever! Nobody else has to know!"

Sam drops his forehead onto the steering wheel with a thunk and groans. "We can only hope. Hope and pray and make sacrifices to pagan gods that the FBI doesn't find out about this."

"If he was my girlfriend, nobody would bat an eye," Dean grumbles.

"If he was your _husband_, nobody would bat an eye," Sam counters. "Well, except for me, I would bat an– but _anyway_ the point is, it's not the gay part, it's the new part. You don't have an established relationship. You don't have an objective friendship, either. You can't work the significant-other angle _or_ the character-witness angle, because you come off as either biased or naïve –"

"Like I said," Dean interrupts, rolling his eyes, "the Powerpoint can wait. We've got a murderer to interrogate. Are we going to do this, or are we going to do this?"

Sam stares pensively at the gray prison building. "Let's get to it."

…

The bank of phones and plexiglass windows is empty, except for the one at the end. Dean is surprised that no one else has a visitor the day after Christmas until he realizes – the room has been cleared on purpose.

The heavyset guard who escorted them here notices Dean's appraisal of the emptiness. "We don't like the other prisoners to mix with him," he says. "He usually meets his visitors in one of our conference rooms."

"Then why are we meeting him in here?" Sam asks.

The guard glances to Dean, and then looks back to Sam. "The FBI was just here. Events have occurred this morning. This room is… more secure."

Dean mentally spits all the curse words he can think of. "They were already here?"

The guard nods. "They came to talk to Mr. Goodwin."

Sam groans and bows his head a little. "Alright. That's fine. That's fine. Tell me though – how are we supposed to talk to him with one phone line?"

The guard shrugs. "Take turns?"

The three of them talk it over, and it's decided that Dean will talk to Lucas, and Sam will sit in the monitor room and listen; the prison will also give him a copy of the recording of the conversation.

Dean sits down in the molded plastic chair. It's seafoam green and ugly as hell, and on the other side of the thick-paned window, Lucas is sitting on its identical twin. The red-haired man looks different than when Dean met him last – his arrest, for the murder of Kenny Whidbey. Guilty plea, confession to the crime, no trial, and then a few weeks later the other confessions came, confessions to the previous murders, to everything, to all of it. This is the man who lured children from their swingsets, who closed his hands around their soft small necks and twisted until they popped, who squeezed their small chubby fingers between a pair of scissor blades until he snapped through the bone, who flipped open a pen-knife and scraped out the sockets of their eyes, who drove a crowbar through their bellies, under their sternums, and cracked open their ribcages and wrenched the bones backwards so that their red slippery organs glistened on display.

This man.

He's thinner now, a scraggly beard clinging to his chin, and he doesn't quite meet Dean's eyes. He seems… weak. Pathetic. Ashamed.

Dean picks up the receiver, and watches as Lucas mirrors him.

"Hello," Lucas says.

Dean says nothing.

Lucas clears his throat, and chuckles nervously. His eyes dart from point to point on Dean's face. "I think I know what you're here for. I just had a visit from two federal agents."

Dean can't do anything but stare at him. He doesn't say a word.

"I'll tell you what I told them." Lucas exhales heavily and slumps in his chair a little. "I haven't been… entirely truthful about the circumstances of the killings. It's a very difficult subject for me to sort out, logically and emotionally, and I've hidden things, and – protected people. But I've been working on a book, my biography, and I think you'll find everything you want to know in there."

"What's your endgame?" Dean asks.

Lucas starts and shifts in his chair. "My… end game?"

"When you frame Cas for murder, and get him locked away in prison forever." Dean keeps his tone cool and casual, but he knows Lucas can see how tightly he's gripping the receiver. "What are you getting out of this, exactly?"

Lucas balks. "I'm not framing my brother Castiel, Dean. It's only because of me that he's even free from –"

"Cut the bullshit." Dean leans in, his blood pounding in his temple and his heartbeat thumping behind his eyes. "You're not some street hustler or hired heavy. You kill for fun. I just wanna know where the fun is right now."

"I don't –"

"You're a player, Luke, and you're playing everyone. You like to think of yourself as a puppeteer, don't you?"

Lucas's face is a mask of confusion and indignance, but a strange brightness gleams in his eyes.

"You like to pull the strings and watch all of us dance."

At the corner of Lucas's mouth, a twitch.

"But why are you pulling these strings in particular?" Dean asks, adrenaline speeding to every nerve, tingling urgently in his skin. "Why Cas? He's your brother. I know you don't love him because a worthless piece of shit like you isn't capable of love, but why would you hate him? You walked free for six years because of him."

The momentary light in Lucas's eyes shuts off, and his face becomes a cold fixed stare of blank ignorance.

"_Why?_" Dean demands. "Why are you doing this?"

A dark shadow crawls across Lucas's expression, and his mouth curls inward into a smirk. "My brother has skeletons in his closet, Dean," he says. "You should've considered that before you started fucking him."

For a moment, time stops.

Sound stops.

Everything stops.

And then Dean stands up, and pulls his arm back,

and slams his phone against the plexiglass.

"_WHY?_" he shouts at the top of his lungs. "_WHY?_"

The door on Dean's side of the glass slams open and two guards grab him by either arm.

Lucas smiles.

"_You're gonna die in here!"_ Dean bellows as they drag him out of the room. He knows Lucas can't hear him, and he doesn't care. "_You're gonna die in prison, you son of a motherfucker!_"

….

In the monitor room, Sam puts his hand to his chin and watches his brother get pinned to the hallway wall by two very large men.

The guard watching the monitor with Sam chuckles. "Poor kid. He's not the first to try to take a swing at Lucas."

"Lucas said he's working on a biography," Sam says. "I'd like to see a list of the visitors he's had over the past few months."

"I can get you that," the guard says, clicking and tapping at his computer. "Give me your card and I can email you copy. But I can also tell you right now who's writing his book: her name's Margaret Masters, nice lookin' gal, one of them true-crime novelists. She comes to visit him every week."

Sam pulls out his business cards and slides one over to the guard. Then he rifles in his jacket for a pen and scribbles the name down on the back of a card, and pockets it. "Thanks. I'll have to look her up…"


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: _I AM SO SORRY FOR HOW LATE THIS IS. BUT THERE ARE MANY MOVING PARTS IN THIS STORY NOW AND I HAVE TO JUGGLE THEM AND I COULD NOT SPLIT THIS UP. I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY. YOU ARE ALL MARVELOUS BEAUTIFUL CREATURES AND I LOVE YOU AND YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE HAD TO WAIT THIS LONG. THIS IS ALL MY FAULT I AM THE WORST OF EVERYONE EVER EXCEPT PROBABLY HITLER. AND STALIN. AND MUSSOLINI AND PINOCHET AND POL POT AND FRANCISCO FRANCO AND OKAY SO I'M NOT AS BAD AS ANY DICTATOR BUT I HAVE STILL COMMITTED CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY. _

_Also, this update is a longer one, so hopefully that will ease the pain._

_P.S. Also also, I realized that I originally categorized this story as "Romance/Friendship." Ha! Ha! Ha! It was partially because I didn't want anyone to be expecting all this plot-havingness that I've been giving the story, but also because I honestly don't know what categories it belongs in. Suspense? Drama? Who The Fuck Knows? Lemme know what you think the appropriate categories should be. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**11:01 a.m.**

It isn't hard to find Margaret Master's address – Sam just types her name into Search the Web and her contact info pops up in the first five results. The brothers decide to pay her a little visit. Sam drives, and Dean sits in the passenger seat. He hates the passenger seat.

"What time did you tell Harvelle we'd come in?"

"One o'clock," Sam says. "We've got some time."

Dean stares at his phone. No messages. "They're not touching my car, are they?"

"The Impala was in the search warrant."

"Motherfucker."

"They're not gonna hurt your car, Dean."

"You don't know that," Dean says. "What if they decide to cut out part of the interior for testing?"

"You know they won't do that unless they have to."

It's true. When Dean was detective, he always tried to respect people's belongings. Then again, he's heard things about the FBI.

He checks his phone again. No messages.

Sam pulls up to a dingy green apartment building, one of twenty in a development ambitiously named "Woodland Ridge." There are perhaps half a dozen trees on the small green patches of frosty grass that pass for lawns; the rest is asphalt.

"Crappy complex," Dean observes. "I thought she was some kind of famous writer…"

"She is," Sam says. "She's got a house in Florida. She's just been living here in Hanneville this past year while she interviews Lucas."

The two brothers get out of the car and approach the front door of Lucas's biographer. Her novelty doormat is iced over, but Dean can make out the words on it:_ "If you're rich, good looking & single, I'm home_."

"Charming," Sam remarks. He knocks on the door, and Dean tucks his hands into his pockets.

A minute later, the door swings open, and a black-haired woman with a round face peeks out of the apartment. Her hair is matted and her eyes have dark bags, clearly the trademarks of a hard night and a few too many drinks. She smirks.

"Sheriff," Meg drawls. "Long time no see."

…

Agent Ellen Harvelle sits on the edge of a filing cabinet with crossed arms, tapping her toe. She pulls the sunglasses out of her breast pocket and chews on the end of the earpiece.

"What's up, chief?" Garth asks, sitting at the nearby desk. He lifts his "mondo burrito" with both hands and sizes it up. "You got that look again."

Ellen takes the sunglasses out of her mouth. "Garth, give me five reasons I should lie to Dean Winchester."

Garth stops mid-chew and garbles through his food, "Abrght wught?"

"About everything," she says. "Five reasons I should keep him in the dark, bluff, put him on the outside of this investigation."

Garth swallows his bite. "One: he could be in communication with the suspect, notifying him whenever we got close to his secret location."

"We don't need to tell him where our operatives are," Ellen says. "The search for Castiel is extraneous to the murder investigation itself. Next."

"Two: he could sabotage the investigation," Garth offers. "If he knows what we have, then he knows what we don't have yet. He could destroy or alter evidence."

"Not if we didn't let him touch it," Ellen says. "If we kept eyes on him, a tail at all times… He could even give us fresh leads if we catch him going after anything. Next."

"Three: he could be lying to us right now." Garth takes another bite and swallows it. "Maybe all he's ever wanted is to clear his own name, and he'll do anything to put Castiel behind bars – including _fabricating_ material evidence."

Ellen shakes her head. "No, it would've been easy enough to for him admit it if he felt that way – he'd be cooperating with us. He'd have no reason to lie."

"Four: he's gonna want in."

Ellen rolls her eyes and waves her hand. "He knows the rules of the game, Garth. He was a detective. He can't be a part of this investigation, and if he whines too much I'll cut him out entirely. Gimme another."

Garth wipes his hands on a napkin and racks his brain. "Wellll…. Uh… This is a stretch, but Winchester's been close to the epicenter of all these terrible events over the years. There's a possibility that he's the real killer. This would put him one step ahead of us."

Ellen chews on her sunglasses again, squints, and then shakes her head. "No, there's no evidence of that. Besides, I can read him, and… He's transparent. Transparent to a fault, almost. I don't think he's hiding anything that big."

Garth purses his mouth doubtfully. "He might be beguiling you with his boyish good looks."

Ellen shoots him a piercing scowl. "I am a _professional_, Garth!"

Garth shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. That man is cuter than a speckled pup in a red wagon. If I had been born a different persuasion, I might be tempted myself to –"

"Enough." Ellen stands up from her perch on the filing cabinet and pockets her sunglasses. "Give me five more reasons."

…..

Castiel Goodwin stands on a snowy Lansing streetcorner, glancing up and down the street. He has no luggage with him, no bags, but he's wearing a coat he didn't have before – a dark grey overcoat with the collar turned up, shielding the nape of his neck from the freezing wind. He's waiting for a taxi.

A yellow cab pulls up, and Castiel gets in the back seat.

"Where ya headed?" the cabbie asks, the red glowing digits on his meter scrambling to life.

"The Greyhound bus station," Castiel answers. He leans forward and offers the driver a thick fold of bills. "Quickly."

…..

**11:07 a.m. **

"_You!_ This bitch?" Dean shouts, pointing at Margaret Masters and reaching for a firearm he doesn't have. "Fucking son of a bitch Lucas _biographer_ bitch Meg?!"

"Dean," Sam cautions, glancing around the lot nervously, "lower your voice, and – start forming sentences. You know her?"

Meg sidles around the doorway, dressed in a set of silky red button-up pajamas. "I'm picking up something about Lucas and my book. Did I not mention that before?"

"Very fucking funny!" Dean seethes. "Oh, bitch, you're gonna burn in hell for what you've done –"

Her eyes flash, and she stands a little straighter. "Excuse me, but I quit going to Sunday school fifteen years ago. We're done here." She starts to close the door.

Before Sam can blink, Dean jams his foot in the doorway and stops her short, grabbing the door and forcing it open. "We are not done," he growls. "Tell us where he is."

"Who? Lucas?" Meg asks. "He's in jail, Einstein!"

"Castiel Goodwin!" Dean snarls. "The man you framed for murder!"

Meg shrinks backward, and her fingers claw into the doorknob. "I didn't frame him for _anything_," she hisses. "He's a murderer all on his own."

Dean lurches forward and grabs her roughly by the arms, his face livid and wild. "You – I'll kill you –"

"Dean!" Sam yanks his brother back, pulls him off the woman and shoves him off the front step. "What the fuck, Dean?!" He shoves him again in the chest for good measure. "What the actual fuck are you doing?"

Meg rubs her right arm, where a bruise is probably blooming under the satin sleeve, and stares at Dean with a sideways clench to her jaw and a challenging gaze. "He never called, you know. Tweety Bird never called my number."

"Who are you?" Sam demands. "How do you know Dean?"

"I'm Meg Masters," she answers. "We met in a bar a few months ago."

"She slept with Cas," Dean says hoarsely, a little out of breath, his shoulders still straining forward toward the woman against the will of his legs. "She could've gotten – his hair –"

"I didn't tell Tweety that I knew his brother," Meg says. "It's kind of a turn-off for most people."

"Why do you think he's a murderer?" Sam asks.

Meg pulls a sardonic smile. "I've always known about Castiel. I'm writing Lucas Goodwin's life story. You learn some things."

"Oh yeah?" Dean counters. "Then why'd you jump his bones?"

Meg's smile tightens, and her eyes get a strange gleam. "It's called a fetish, honey. Psychos just happen to rattle my rollcage."

Dean steps forward again, and Sam puts his arm out, a bar across Dean's chest. Dean doesn't push past it, but his glower is so icy he doesn't need to. "You're sick. And you're coming down to the station with us."

Meg balls her hands into fists. "First of all, no. Second of all – hell no."

Sam presses his arm back against Dean, and to his surprise – Dean actually gets the signal. He steps back and keeps his mouth shut.

Sam takes a deep breath and looks Meg in the eye. "You're writing a book on Lucas Goodwin," he says. "He says you've got a complete draft. We need to see it."

"Just ask to see his copy," Meg suggests. "I gave it to him last month. He approved it and we're going to print. Should hit shelves in a few weeks…"

Sam's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. Either Lucas didn't offer up his copy, or he's already given it to the FBI.

"We need another copy," he says. "You must have a manuscript."

Meg narrows her eyes. "And why should I share it with you?"

Dean's lip curls into a sneer. "Because otherwise I'll punch you right in your –"

"Because otherwise we'll bring in the police," Sam interrupts. "And they'll execute a search warrant, and who _knows_ what they'll find…"

Meg glances back inside her home.

Dean keeps quiet, and looks to Sam.

Sam nods.

"Give me a sec," Meg says, her eyes darting between the two brothers. "Don't bust down the door or anything." She closes the door on them and several sets of locks click into place.

Sam and Dean wait. Sam mentally calculates the odds that she's retrieving a shotgun from her gun cabinet.

After a long agonizing minute, the tumblers of the locks click again and the door swings open. Meg shoves a thick binder at Sam. "Here. This is it. Now will you please leave me the fuck alone?"

Sam takes the binder and chuckles. "Well, I can't promise that, Ms. Masters. But we appreciate your cooperation. Have a nice day." And with that, he turns to leave.

Dean gives her a bright, sarcastic smile and waves his hand. "See you in hell, succubus whore!"

Meg slams the door in his face.

Dean trots to catch up with Sam, and they get in the car. Sam tosses the binder in the back seat and revs up the engine, and Dean asks, "How did you know?"

Sam buckles up. "Know what?"

"About her stash," Dean says. "How'd you know she's got drugs in there?"

Sam huffs a laugh. "I didn't, Dean. I just figured that anyone with a serial killer fetish probably has a closet or two that they wouldn't want the police to get their hands on."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Good point."

"She's not going to be happy when the feds show up," Sam says, craning his neck to look out the back window as he pulls out of the parking spot. "But that's not our problem."

….

**11:47 a.m.**

"C'mon," Sam says. "You gotta eat, Dean."

"I seriously – I don't want anything," Dean insists. "This entire day makes me want to hurl."

Sam leans toward the drive-thru loudspeaker anyway. "I'd also like a double cheeseburger and a milkshake."

….

**12:24 p.m.**

"I guess we should head toward the station now," Sam says, crumpling up his napkin and starting the car. He pulls onto the highway and navigates his toward the interstate, weaving through lanes of lunch commuters.

Dean checks his phone.

No messages.

The back of his throat starts to tingle, and the underside of his tongue slickens.

"Sam," Dean says. "Pull over."

"Dean, we're in the middle of –"

Dean grabs the handle of the door with white knuckles, a cold sweat breaking out on his face. "Sam, I'm serious! Pull over right now!"

With a few honks and a near side-swipe, Sam makes it to the shoulder just in time for Dean to throw the door open and vomit onto the asphalt, his stomach convulsing tight and splattering his insides on the ground. He heaves until nothing comes up but painful spit and then just hangs there halfway out of the car, clutching the door, panting, eyes wet.

He can feel Sam watching him. "Dean?"

"I told you," Dean groans. He wipes his eyes and shivers. "You made me eat that goddamn cheeseburger…"

"Sorry."

"Gimme some water. God, this tastes disgusting…"

…

**12:53 p.m.**

The two FBI agents sit on one side of the table, and the Winchester brothers sit on the other. The wood-paneled room with burgundy red carpeting and tan metal chairs could be mistaken for an ordinary conference room but for the lack of windows and the lock on the door. This room has one purpose only.

Agent Harvelle presses the power button of the small tape recorder in the center of the table. "Dean," she says, "we'd like to ask you some questions."

"Listen, I'm feeling a little under the weather today," Dean says amiably, "so why don't you and I cut the chit-chat and get down to the nitty gritty." He clasps his hands and rests them on the table. "We have the name and address of a woman who has been in contact with Lucas Goodwin for the past several months, who approached Castiel and I in a bar around Halloween and proceeded to make sexual advances toward him. I don't know the full extent of their interaction, but I do know that about a month later she tracked down our address and showed up unannounced on our doorstep, ostensibly to give Castiel her number. Not once did she reveal she was Lucas's biographer. Sam and I went to visit her today to ask her about her connection to Lucas, and she alleged that she has a sexual fetish for murderers. I believe she acted in concert with Lucas to frame Castiel for this murder, and if you are any kind of ethical fucking agent you will tear her home apart brick by brick until you find the proof."

Agents Harvelle and Fitzgerald sit in stunned silence.

Sam slides a piece of paper with Meg's name, address and phone number across the table to Garth.

Harvelle straightens her suit jacket and tightens her jaw. "Mr. Winchester, are you pursuing your own unauthorized investigation of this murder?"

Dean sits back in his chair and shrugs. "I'm a private detective now, so… yeah. I guess so."

"I don't think you realize the position this puts us in." Harvelle leans forward, her eyes flinty and cutting. "I came into this room prepared to cooperate, Dean, but I absolutely cannot allow you to jeopardize our investigation like this. We already have Margaret Master's book and all of her contact information, but none of the evidence points toward her involvement."

"Oh yeah?" Dean challenges. "What evidence is that?"

"I will share that information with you on one condition." Harvelle's voice is low and sharp like a knife. "From here on out, you do _no _investigating. That's the deal. Do you understand me? If you get a wild hair up your ass, you call me or you call Garth. If you so much as _think_ about playing detective, I will _personally _have your guts for garters. Are we clear?"

Dean scowls. "I'm not 'playing' detective. I _am_ a detective –"

"We'll take it," Sam cuts in. "He won't pursue any leads on his own."

Harvelle regards the two of them for a long moment.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she tells Garth. "But you just had to have your way…"

Garth smiles broadly. "Aw, you know they're on the level, boss! Just look at 'em!"

"What's this evidence you have?" Sam asks. "We know about the hair on the body."

Harvelle slides the thick beige folder next to her to the center of the table and flips it open. "Well, as you know, the body has been decomposing nearly a month in a heavily wooded area, so we flew in a forensic specialist to examine the remains. She finished her initial report about an hour ago, but she'll be doing additional analyses over the next 24 hours."

Dean swallows. "And?"

"And…" Harvelle hands them a photocopy, a standard form accompanied by a detailed report of the scientist's observations. "If we assume that all of the previous murders were committed by Lucas, the first logical explanation for Gabriela's murder would be a copycat killer. If that were the case, we would expect to see various inconsistencies between the way Gabriela was murdered and the way the previous victims were murdered."

Dean scans the page, but his eyes don't really register the words. They might as well be Greek. Sam peers over his shoulder, his eyes flicking back and forth from line to line.

"There _are_ some inconsistencies," Garth comments. "None of the previous victims were drugged, but there is chemical residue on some of the tissue of Gabriela's face that indicates she may have been chloroformed. Her ribs were also smashed inward instead of being pried up from the inside."

"But what's troubling is the _consistencies_." Harvelle rubs her temple. "Our doc wants to exhume Kenny Whidbey's body to confirm, but… she says the damage to the ocular cavities is so identical that she believes it was inflicted by not only the same person… but the same person, with the _same knife_."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dean says, still staring fixedly at the page. "Lucas's DNA was on Kenny. He's the one kid we know for _sure_ that Lucas killed."

Harvelle and Garth exchange a glance.

"That brings us to our next piece of evidence," Harvelle says. "Garth and I visited Lucas today, and he gave us a copy of his biography. We've thumbed through it, and he makes some interesting allegations."

"DNA!" Dean insists. "DNA evidence! That is the gold fucking standard!"

Garth reaches over and pats his arm. "There there."

Dean yanks his arm away and glares.

"He still admits to committing the murders," Harvelle explains. "But according to him, he didn't commit them alone."

It takes Sam and Dean a moment to process this information.

Sam looks down at the table and rotates his jaw.

"You – you're saying," Dean stammers, clenching and unclenching his hands, "you're saying you think that Lucas – and Castiel, that they were in it together the whole time. That it was a brother act."

"It would explain the consistencies," Garth says. "It would explain why the evidence pointed to Castiel in the first place. It would explain a lot of things. And…" He reaches over and pulls another photocopy out of Harvelle's file. "It would explain this." He hands it to Dean.

It's a copy of a letter, handwritten and barely legible, scrawl running from one side of the page to the next, filling the margin, filling the entire page. Dean squints and reads a snippet –

_I saw the black Side of me was now caught and others would not suffer from my hand but then dawn on me yes the other in me will cause no suffering the living remained the Father Brother Children Friends and Wife will suffer and the real me of blood flesh and mind will suffer warn wet with inner fear and rapture my pleasure of entanglement like new vines at night_

"This letter was sent to Lucas in the prison through the postal service on November 30th," Harvelle says. "All of his correspondence is closely monitored." She chews the inside her cheek and takes a quick breath before she adds, "Lucas had the original, still in its envelope. Castiel's fingerprints were on it."

The lines darken in front of Dean's eyes, the edges of his vision turning gray.

"The day after it arrived, Lucas sent the following letter." Ellen slides another photocopy across the table. "The prison photocopied it. We found the original in Castiel's bedroom."

A blank page. A single sentence.

_You have my leave._

"Castiel visited Lucas in prison two days later," Harvelle says. "We have a video recording."

In December? Cas didn't go to the prison in December. He only went once. In the spring. With Dean.

Cas went to the prison in December.

He didn't tell Dean.

He lied.

"What did he say?" Sam asks, his eyes wide and urgent.

"Castiel asks Lucas about the meaning of the letter. Lucas responds by talking about their father and the abuse they suffered as children. Castiel tells him that he doesn't remember the abuse."

"According to our forensic scientist," Garth says, "Gabriela was murdered within a three day window of this visit." He glances at Dean, then to Sam. "We think Lucas may have sent this letter to… give Castiel permission."

Dean lets the paper slide out of his hands, out of his numb fingertips.

He closes his eyes.

"Did you pull the phone records?" he whispers.

"Dean," Sam says.

"Did you pull the phone records?" Dean repeats.

"Not yet," Garth answers. "But we will."

"He called someone," Dean says. "Someone asked him to come Michigan. You find that person, you'll find the answers. I don't have the answers. Not yet. But I'm gonna find them."

Sam grabs his arm. "Alright, Dean –"

"Has he contacted you in any way?" Agent Harvelle asks. "Please, Dean, be honest with us."

Dean stands up and shuffles the papers in front of him together. "I'm going to need copies of all these," he says. "Any other reports your scientists come up with, I want to see them. You can bring them to Jody Singer's house."

Garth stands up. "Dean, Castiel is the only one who can sort things out. If you have any contact with him, you _need_ to tell him to get ahold of us immediately."

"I don't know where he is," Dean answers coldly. "I don't know where you think he is, either. I don't know if he's alive or dead. All I know is that he didn't do this."

"Dean." Sam stands up and puts a hand on his shoulder. "That's enough. C'mon. Let's go." He opens the door and jerks his head toward the exit.

"We'll be in touch," Harvelle says.

"I'm so sorry," Garth says.

Dean swallows against the knot in his dry throat and walks out the door.

….

The car is silent. The air itself feels thin, nosebleed thin, cold like mountain air, icy in the lungs, not enough oxygen to really breathe. Sam cranks up the heat and clicks the buttons for both seat warmers.

Dean checks his phone again. No messages.

He freezes.

"Sam," he says. "I just thought of something."

Sam stops blowing on his hands and looks over. "What?"

"The FBI." Dean can't take his eyes off the screen, the green striped background and the white numbers indicating the time. "They could trace the GPS in Cas's phone. So if they haven't found him yet…"

Sam's eyes widen. "He doesn't have it."

Dean's heart thumps somewhere above the roof of his mouth. "Someone took his phone, Sam. Someone took it from him."

"Or…" Sam pauses. "He ditched it."

Dean snaps his eyes to Sam. That familiar slick nausea crawls up the back of his throat.

"Maybe he ditched it," Sam repeats, blinking quickly. "Tossed it in a dumpster, maybe even left it on the plane…"

"Please, Sam." Dean grits his teeth and fights the stinging in his eyes. "Please, not from you. I need you in my corner. I _need_ you in my corner."

"I am in your corner," Sam whispers. "Dean, I – I have to consider the possibilities, okay?"

"There are no possibilities. It wasn't him. It isn't _possible_," Dean insists, his voice scraping out raw and torn. "I wanted to let him go on that plane, Sammy, I was ready to let him go and he _refused_, okay, he fucking _refused_ to let me say goodbye. He said – he said these things and he made – he made – " Hot dampness blurs the edge of his vision and trickles down his cheek and he takes a deep raggedy breath. He voice cracks on the way out. "He _swore._"

Sam drags in a breath that is just as ragged, and his mouth twists painfully. "I believe you, Dean. I believe you."

Dean pounds his fist on the edge of the door and he cries, "Don't believe me, Sammy! Believe _him!_"

Sam wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and gazes at Dean with resigned heartbreak on his face. "I can't."

Dean's chest wrenches tight.

Sam turns the ignition, and the car rumbles to life; there is no more to be said between them, and the sharp pain of their private worlds throbs between them, a living thing, a hot serrated knife. Dean closes his eyes and lets the world dissolve into bitter darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: _**Warning. It is very late as I type this. I can't** **even.**_

_Your Babushka, she love you. You know this. _

_If Babushka did not be loving her children, she would no make story. Babushka, she have many paper. She have many hour with no sleep. She eat breakfast of hot dog. She eat dinner of potatoes. She drink coffee, so many coffee that her eyes no more close. But Babushka type more. And now Babushka is ready that - _

_Oh. _

_Is right. Yes, you right. Story no good. Story no make happy. Babushka will write happy story for you. Your Babushka will write story where Babushka is dead in ground and you is party. Happy party for fun children. Many tall boy with pointed cheeks who kiss other boy. Many alcohol, many types of cheeses. Girl with pink hair will sing the song of peacocks. This is better story. Maybe direction-boys will come to party and dance on the grave of your Babushka. _

_What? You be liking story now? _

_Come, children. Read Babushka story. Babushka love to make her children happy..._

_P.S. I don't normally ever post "trigger warnings," and I think the subject matter is fairly gruesome from the get-go, but there is some kinda terrible things being talked about in this chapter. Nothing super graphic, just dealing with the matter of child abuse, and I recognize that that's gonna be a rough read for some people. So, I guess this is my warning. Read at your own peril. _

_P.P.S. I am seriously so sorry for how late this update is. _

* * *

**5:57 p.m. **

Dean is shuttered away in Bobby's study. The door is locked. He's been in there for the past three hours, cloistered with the case file and photographs, "working it out."

Sam and Bobby are standing outside the door, staring at the handle. Each has a beer bottle in hand.

"We could bust it open," Sam suggests. "Drag him out bodily."

Bobby scratches his beard. "Maybe we should give him another hour. He's gonna run out of bourbon eventually."

Sam sighs. "Sometimes I'm surprised Dean's not more religious."

Bobby squints. "Whaddya mean?"

"His faith." Sam nods toward the door. "He has this - _conviction_. He won't even entertain the thought that he could be wrong about Cas."

Bobby gives him a calculating look. "You know, if it were you on the chopping block, he'd be the same way."

Sam glances away. "Yeah. I know."

Bobby regards him. "Would you?"

Sam takes a long pull of his beer, and lowers his eyes to the hardwood floor. "I keep asking myself the same thing."

…..

Dean spent the first ten minutes looking over the case documents, the photographs, the coroner's report, the DNA analysis. He spent a half-hour going back over the previous murders, comparing notes and pictures.

Then he opened up Meg's book, and he's been in there ever since.

The worst part is that it's actually good writing. The story is lurid and dark, but not as exploitative as he expected – the deaths are treated sensitively, not pornographically. She writes from her point of view, the journalist looking for answers, interspersed with flashbacks from the convict's childhood. Lucas is peeled back like an onion, sympathetic at one moment and manipulative the next, twisted and charismatic and greedy and strangely engrossing. And from the very first page, the lodestone of the narrative is Castiel.

Dean heard about Castiel's childhood from friends and neighbors, a lifetime ago. Cas and Lucas had grown up in a conservative Christian household in the small logging town of Corbin. Not knowing anything else, they didn't see their lifestyle as repressive until adulthood. Their father was strict and religious, but both the boys did well in school and received much praise from the faculty for their excellent behavior. Clearly, their tight-knit family was doing _something_ right.

The childhood described in Meg's book is very different.

It's a story of brothers. Two young boys bonded together through mutual fear of their abusive father, relying on each other for protection and comfort. Their home life consisted of Bible verses, subsistence farming, and regular whippings. Their cold and neglectful mother encouraged their codependence, giving Lucas the responsibility of raising Castiel when he was still a child himself. Like abandoned animals that return to the wild, the boys retreated into the forest surrounding their childhood home and withdrew into a private fantasy world of their own creation, feral and untamed. They became obsessed with hunting and wilderness survival. They became obsessed with each other.

According to Lucas, their father would often beat him and Castiel without provocation, screaming religious rhetoric at them and berating them for their sins. Lucas resented his father intensely and often fantasized about torturing and murdering him. He told his brother of these fantasies; more than once he cut into the flesh of still-warm animal with a skinning knife and thought to himself about how easy it would be to slit his mother's throat. As he grew into his teens, his angry thoughts deepened and thickened into a dark bubble of pleasure. He began to kill animals more slowly, more deliberately. It was no longer rage that drove him; it was lust. On his fourteenth birthday, he took his little brother by the throat and strangled him until he went limp, just to see if he could. It was the first time in years that Lucas felt…

satisfied.

When Castiel woke up, Lucas apologized and told him he could try it on him, if he wanted.

Castiel tried, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't make Lucas go limp. His hands weren't strong enough yet. Lucas promised he would give him another chance when they were older.

Dean reads this and pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows where this is going, knows what she's implying, and he can't –

Someone knocks on the door to Bobby's study. "You okay in there, Dean?" Sam calls. "Need anything?"

"I'm fine," Dean hollers back. "Now go away. You're being distracting."

The handle rattles. "Maybe you could just unlock the door, and I could see that you're fine myself."

"You hear this conversation we're having?" Dean asks. "This is why I locked the door."

"You need to take a break, Dean!" Sam's getting frustrated now, he can hear it. "Or at least – at least talk to me. About everything…."

"No can do, Sammy." Dean turns his eyes back to the page. "I'll break when I make a break in the case. Right now I gotta keep going."

"Dean…"

…..

Lucas responded to the abuse by becoming angry and dark, turning that anger inward and finding pleasure in it. But as Lucas tells the journalist from his stark prison cell, Castiel reacted differently.

Castiel didn't hate like Lucas did, didn't savor fantasies of rebellion. Instead, he was totally submissive, to both Lucas and their father. That was his escape. Instead of struggling and fighting back during the beatings, Castiel would go nearly catatonic and wouldn't remember anything that had happened afterward. The pupils of his eyes would blow wide with an unfocused fixed stare and he would go "blank." Lucas envied him. Their father had no problem with Castiel's obedience; it didn't spare him any beatings, but their father often maintained that Castiel was his favorite son.

One day, as he raised his fist to strike again, a bloodied catatonic Castiel looked back up at him with dark dead eyes and said, "You should kill me now, old man. While you still can."

The journalist sat in Lucas's prison cell, and Lucas smiled softly as spun the tale. His eyes shone as he told her, "And that was when I knew… that Castiel and I were soulmates."

Dean's mouth tastes coppery and bitter.

Lies. It's all lies.

This is what the FBI is working off of? This is shit.

He grabs a pen and scribbles down _Get Cas jail video_. He needs to see the conversation Cas had with Lucas about the letter. He's studied the photocopies and he has the edge now to force Harvelle's hand, but he needs –

His phone buzzes. Text message from an unknown number.

_Hey there pal, it's Garth. Hope you're doing alright and getting some rest! :) We're done with your house and we made sure everything is just the way you left it. I made a quiche and left it in the fridge for you. It's my Mama's recipe! Yum yum! :D_

Dean resists the urge to throw his phone on the ground and stomp on it.

It buzzes again.

_Also I pulled those phone records that you asked for and emailed them to you. Doesn't look like they'll help your friend out too much. :/ Sorry! If you ever wanna grab a cup of joe with me and talk, just gimme a holler! _

Dean flips open his laptop and boots up his email, clicks on the file and scans the numbers, row after row.

Bingo.

He stands up, grabs his jacket, and dials Garth's number.

…..

Sam sits at Bobby's kitchen table, hunched over and nursing his beer.

A soft hand slides across the back of his neck. He knows from touch alone that it's Amelia. He sighs and leans into her hand.

She steps closer to him and combs her fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her stomach. She's warm, and real, and _here_ and Sam finds himself squeezing her tight, letting her strength hold him up, and the relief and comfort that washes through him nearly overwhelms him.

"Rough day," Amelia whispers. "How are you doing?"

"I'm letting him down," Sam mumbles. "Dean needs me and I'm letting him down."

She strokes his head, lifts his chin and look in his eyes. "How?"

"He – he wants me to believe," Sam says. "It's not enough that I'm fighting for Cas, I have to really believe that he's innocent and I _want_ to believe it, I do, it's just –"

"Sam." Amelia gazes down at him and tucks his hair behind his ear. "You remember our second date, when I asked you how you could defend someone you knew was guilty?"

Sam does remember.

_Okay, but that's just it. It doesn't matter whether or not I think they're guilty. It's not my call to make. It's the plaintiff's job to _prove _that their allegations are true. Our system depends on that. Maybe not as much as the criminal system, but – I can't let my emotions about a person or company affect my legal judgment. My job is to defend them in spite of my personal feelings, because 'being disliked by Sam Winchester' isn't against the law. _

"You can still be an advocate," she tells him. "It's what you do."

Sam swallows. "But what if… What if it turns out… I mean, the _children, _Ame."

"That's not your call to make." Her eyes are clear and steady. "That's the government's job to prove. Beyond a reasonable doubt."

Sam closes his eyes. "I know."

Amelia presses a kiss to the top of his head. "You can do it," she murmurs. "I believe in you."

Across the house, the study door slams open and loud footsteps echo down the hallway. "Sammy!" Dean barks, striding into the kitchen. "I got a lead! I'm headin' to Garth. Get your coat."

Sam stands up quickly and blinks. "You're asking me to go with you?"

"Of course. You're my lawyer. I'd be stupid not to bring you." Dean stares at him with a closed expression, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "You tagging along or what?"

"You're my brother," Sam answers. "I'd be stupid not to come."

Dean's mouth quirks upward at the corner.

Amelia leans in and gives Sam a quick peck on the cheek. "Give 'em hell, babe."

…..

**7:42 p.m.**

The FBI agents are staying at a Marriot hotel, and Garth has charitably invited the Winchesters to stop by for a visit. Sam knocks on the door and glances at Dean.

Dean just stares straight ahead into the peephole.

The door swings open and Garth stands on the other side, grinning goofily with one hand on his hip. "Howdy, fellas!" he greets them. "Come on in!" He ushers the Winchesters into the room.

It's a suite, a _nice_ suite with adjoining rooms and a fireplace and a coffee table. Spread out on the table are all kinds of photographs and files, and Agent Harvelle is busy sifting through them, marking them with a yellow highlighter.

"Isn't this cozy," Dean remarks. "The honeymoon package. Don't they warn you about office romances in the employee handbook?"

Harvelle doesn't even look up. "That's not a concern," she says dryly. "Garth knows what would happen if he tried anything funny. Don't you, Garth?"

Garth clasps his hands behind his back and nods somberly. "Yes I do," he replies. "Agent Harvelle would cut off my man-parts and shove them directly where the sun don't shine."

Harvelle stands with a smile and drops her paperwork on the chair. "Okay. Now that that's cleared up, what exactly did you come here for?"

Sam walks over and sets his briefcase on the table, unclipping it and pulling out select papers.

"Well, first of all," Dean begins, "there's the little fact that you lied to me."

Harvelle doesn't betray a beat of surprise. "Oh really?"

Dean smiles, smug and bitter. "Yes, really. I'm a detective, Harvelle. I've used every trick in the book. You gave me just enough to get me to bite and then you bluffed the details."

Garth frowns in confusion. "Now, just what are you talking about? We were very straightforward with you, Dean."

Sam hands Harvelle the sheaf of paper that came from their very own files. "The letter," he tells them. "From Castiel to Lucas."

"You gave me everything in that file," Dean says. "You gave me copies of the letters, the envelopes, tracking numbers from the postal service, the name of the prison employee who made the photocopy – everything except one thing." He tucks his hands in his pockets. "The fingerprints."

Harvelle looks through the papers, her voice even and expressionless. "We must have made an oversight."

"Or, you don't have them." Dean grins fiercely, almost manically. "You dusted the letter, didn't you, and you didn't find a single fingerprint. There is _nothing_ tying the letter to Castiel except that Lucas claims it came from him."

"Nothing except Occam's Razor." Ellen steps closer to him, her boots tapping on the hardwood floor. "The simplest explanation is that Castiel sent it, and it's the most likely."

"Nothing about this fucking case is simple!" Dean snarls. "You need to pull your head out of the sand, Harvelle! This is not murder as usual. No matter how you slice it, this is fucking _weird as shit_ and –"

"Dean." Sam snaps his briefcase shut. "You're straying."

Dean takes a deep breath and glares at Harvelle. "But that's not all we have. That's not the only loose end. Garth sent me the phone records."

Garth looks disappointed, and he scuffs his shoe against the floor. "Aw, Dean," he says, "I told you in that report that the only call he made was to a prepaid burner phone."

Dean points his finger at Garth, and Sam can see the edges of his composure fraying and unraveling. "One call. He made _one phone call _yesterday morning," he rants. "To a phone with _our _area code, bought in October."

"So he had a confederate," Harvelle answers with a shrug. "Believe it or not, we are exploring that avenue, Winchester."

"No." Dean shakes his head, cuts across the air with his hand. "No, you guys – you think that it's all a coincidence, somehow, that the night he left was the same night the body was discovered. You think that for some fucking reason, a man who had decided to flee the country flew to _fucking Michigan_ in the middle of December."

"It was his cover!" Garth chimes in. "He had to give you an excuse for leaving!"

"He didn't have to get on the plane!" Dean shoots back. "I didn't follow him into the terminal, _Garth_. He got on the plane long after I was gone. He could've flown to Bermuda and I wouldn't know the goddamn difference! He didn't empty his accounts, he didn't leave the country – hell, he could've even gotten to Canada easier than getting to Michigan –"

"Then what's your theory?" Harvelle interrupts, her jaw set and her eyes sharp. "Enlighten us."

Dean's face turns focused, his aim precise. "Meg. Meg Masters. She's the killer."

The tension in the room snaps taut, and Garth and Harvelle stare at Dean. Their intentness is transparent and white-hot. Sam can feel the blood tingling in his fingertips.

"She fools around with Cas, and she gets that hair," Dean says. "She also gets in his phone. She changes one of his contacts – Daphne, his ex-wife. She changes the number. She kills a little kid and she waits for him to call, but he never does. She even hunts us down at our home – maybe she thinks she can say something to him, make him think of his ex. She and Lucas make the letter exchange; she mails him, he mails Cas. Finally, Christmas day, Cas calls. She says she's Daphne's mother, a voice he doesn't know well. She asks him to come to Michigan. He says he'll buy a ticket on the next flight out. She goes down to the place where she killed the little girl, plants the hair on the body, and calls 911 on the emergency phone to make an anonymous tip." Dean jerks his head sideways and rolls his shoulders. "How's that for Occam's Razor?"

For a long moment, Garth and Harvelle hang suspended in silence.

Then a buzzing sound interrupts the stupor, and Harvelle starts. "My phone," she explains, grabbing it from the coffee table. "Excuse me." She flips it open and walks into the other room as she answers it. "Agent Harvelle speaking…"

Garth scratches his chin. "Well, I guess it's up to me to say what Agent Harvelle woulda said."

Dean and Sam exchange a glance. "And what's that?" Sam asks.

"You got a couple problems there, buddy," Garth says. "First one being that whoever killed Gabriela has been killing kids at Lake Madeleine over the past decade. Up until this past year Ms. Masters was living in Florida."

Dean shrugs. "Maybe she's a good copycat. Your forensic scientist is still working on that."

"But then you've got the second problem." Garth squints and looks at the ceiling. "Now – tell me if I'm following this correctly – under your theory, Ms. Masters killed soon after she met Castiel, in October. But Gabriela was killed in December."

Dean takes a deep breath. "I – I know that, but… Maybe she waited to kill, hoping she could get more evidence on him first. Maybe – maybe she even killed twice. First when she met him, and then again later, after she waited and waited but couldn't control herself. I don't know."

Agent Harvelle re-enters the room, slightly paler than she was before. "Garth," she says, "We need to go."

All three men turn to look at her.

She grits her teeth and admits, "They found another body at Lake Madeleine."


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: _Late. Tired. Love you all. Sorry for slowness of updates. Sorry about lack of Cas! I realized it's been like a billion years since we've had the -stiel of this Destiel even present in the story. GUESS I'M JUST BAD AT STUFF HA HA HA. This story has been an experiment in plot-having and I thank you all for making it an enjoyable experiment. Maybe one day I will stirke a good balance between murders and sexytimes. _

_Your prize for reviewing this chapter is that I will send you a big box of kittens. My mom's slut-cat had kittens. (Seriously, she sluts it up with all the toms. Girl needs to slow her rollers.) Some of the kittens might be funny-lookin' on account of how inbred their mother is (HER mother was also a slut-cat and so this kittens have kind of an Uncle Daddy and Cousin Brother situation going on) but they are adorable and have the correct number of eyes, ears and paws! Useful for a variety of purposes - posing, cheering up, launching at enemies, catapulting into neighbor yards, whatever you can dream up! _

_Heh heh. CAT-apult. _

_Oh God I need sleep. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**9:02 p.m. **

In the woods, in the cold dark, flashlight beams flickering and roaming, red and blue lights undulating, underbrush catching on clothing and scratching at the skin, the crackle of walkie-talkings, the smell of pine and wet stone.

It's a tiny skeleton, really. No skin on the bones. Moss clinging to the skull.

It's such a small skeleton.

"Go home," Agent Harvelle orders. "This is a crime scene."

"I'm a detective," Dean answers. "I belong at the crime scene."

"Not today." He can see this isn't the time to try her. Some edge of her hard exterior has been scraped away to the raw flesh underneath, and every word out of her mouth is ragged with it. "We'll send you the reports and the photographs. Just _go home_."

So he does.

…

**9:36 p.m.**

The upstairs bedroom at Bobby's house isn't bad, as far as guest rooms go. It's not like Dean's going to be able to sleep anyways, so it doesn't really matter where he is while he lies awake with a churning stomach.

The tiny skeleton. Much farther decayed than Gabriela, and that means – Dean was right. Meg killed more than once. This new child was probably taken in October, around the same time that they took Cas to the pumpkin patch and Cas said that they were surrogates, that what he was feeling wasn't real, and Dean took him out to the bar to prove his love was real by fucking someone else, and he fought with Cas, and he left Cas at the bar, and Cas came home at one in the morning and crept into Dean's room and asked him if it was possible he was broken–

_Do you trust me?_

The question burns in the hollow of Dean's gut. _Yes._

_Are you committed to me? _

Dean closes his eyes and grabs a fistful of blanket. He squeezes it tight and clenches his teeth. _ Of course I am._

_That's all that really matters in this world. The rest is simply nuance._

Dean feels a hot burning warmth in his face, along his neck, shame and despair mingling under his skin. It's been one day since Cas left, and already he's letting fear corrupt him. He _knows_ Cas. He knows Cas isn't a killer. He knows it so vehemently and so absolutely that he can't believe that Daphne broke down into tears on the witness stand when the prosecutor asked her if she knew for sure where Castiel went at night. She shouldn't have cried. She should have been furious. She should have sat with a spine forced rigid with anger and told the prosecutor to shove it up his ass. She should have spat his questions back in his face. She should have left no doubt in the minds of the jury that her husband was every inch the man she knew him to be.

Then again, she didn't know the Castiel that Dean knows. She didn't know the hardship he would be able to endure. She didn't know the depth of his mercy and the tenacity of his kindness. She had not yet seen him dragged into the fire and purified, like ore in a crucible, the grit and dirt burnt away until only the bright-glimmering gold remained.

But Dean saw. Dean knows. Dean believes.

…

**1:17 a.m. **

Dean stares up at the dark stucco ceiling, staring at the shadows and shapes, his mind forming them into bizarre constellations. _Those spikes are kinda shaped like a buffalo,_ he thinks._ A deformed buffalo with an extra leg_.

That's stupid.

_Go to sleep, Dean. _

_I wonder if Sam is asleep right now. I wonder if he's tucked in with Amelia by his side, and he's sound asleep because he feels totally safe in his own bed. I wonder if he's lying awake and staring at the wall, her shoulder pressed against his back as she softly snores, and he listens to the sound of her breathing and counts the breaths. I wonder if he's awake on the couch while she's awake in their room, and the TV's still on but he isn't watching, not really, and she keeps straining to hear the sound of the TV and imagining him alone in its blue glow. I wonder if either of them is thinking about me. I wonder if either of them is thinking about Cas. _

_I wonder if Cas is thinking about me. _

_I wonder if Cas is alive. _

_Oh God, what if he's not alive?_

And for the first time since this ordeal started 16 hours ago, in the silent blackness of the empty guest bedroom, Dean crumbles under the pressure and rolls the pillow over his face

and cries.

…

**December 27****th**

The next day is long and slow. The reports come in by hand, delivered to Bobby's house by deputies , confirming what Dean already suspected. It's a boy, about five, probably killed sometime in late October. Identified as Camden Rodebaugh. Unlike the other children, it seems Camden was killed right there in the woods. Cause of death difficult to ascertain, but the telltale markers are there. Cloth fibers were recovered near the body, khaki-colored synthetic blend with a chemical coating for waterproofing; likely they came from a torn piece of some outerwear. Unclear if the fibers are from the child's clothes or the killer's.

Kenny Whidbey's body is exhumed in the morning, and the forensic specialist spends the day compiling an extensive report.

Jody spends all day at the office, working on some drug case. "Murders or no murders," she says, "I have a county to run." Dean is starting to think that she might be avoiding him.

Sam drives out to the airport to meet Castiel's former attorney, Anna Lawrence. He doesn't bring her to meet Dean, not yet. Dean isn't sure he wants to see her again. A couple of years ago she questioned him extensively about his investigation of Castiel and he held his ground, stood by the conviction. To see her now, from the other side of the fence – he's not quite ready for the gloating and humiliation.

The news cycle breaks the story of the two new Lake Madeleine Murders. Many of the reports insinuate against Castiel, and Harvelle releases a statement that he is a "person of interest" but that the FBI is investigating several different leads and a copycat killer has not been ruled out. The news outlets do not yet realize Castiel is missing. His disappearance has been successfully suppressed.

Unknown numbers ring on Dean's phone. He doesn't answer. He's glad he's not at his house.

Bobby makes grilled cheese sandwiches and forces Dean to eat them. "It's unnatural to see you off your food," he says. "You're makin' the others skittish. Now eat before I have to cram this sandwich down your gullet myself."

Dean does some more reading.

Lucas told the journalist about Castiel's episodes, about the dark twistedness that emerged whenever he went catatonic. "We didn't have a name for it," he told her. "We just called it 'blanking.' At first it just happened during the beatings, but then he started blanking more and more often…"

Castiel started to blank whenever he and Lucas went into the woods together. "He didn't like some of the things we did," Lucas said, "until he started blanking." When he blanked, Castiel became a different person, a person who enjoyed pain, both inflicting it and having it inflicted upon him. He was twelve now, and Lucas sixteen. Before, Castiel only liked killing animals he could eat. When he blanked, he liked to keep the animals alive as long as possible, keeping them screaming and bleeding. He smeared the warm blood on himself, on Lucas. They laughed together.

"I always made sure to clean him up before he came out of the blank," Lucas said. "Otherwise, he'd wake up and see the blood and start crying. He never remembered what he did."

Sometimes Castiel wouldn't blank when Lucas wanted him to, so Lucas would hit him until he blanked involuntarily. "I wasn't as good at it as my father. One of his teachers noticed this bruise on his chin – he told her that we got in a fight, and she called up Dad. Luckily Dad thought Cas was covering for him, so I didn't get in trouble. I was more careful after that. I didn't want to get caught."

"Didn't you worry about Castiel?" the journalist asked. "I thought you loved him. Weren't you concerned about hurting him?"

Lucas mulled the question over, a clinical expression to his face. He rubbed his thumb against his wrist. "I suppose… the way I saw it, we loved each other, and to me that meant… that I was in control. If I wanted something from him, I could take it, because I wanted it so badly and he knew it. If he loved me back, he'd realize that I needed it and he'd want me to have it too. So… I wanted Cas to blank. I made Cas blank. He liked blanking. I didn't see a problem."

The journalist felt a strange shiver along the back of her neck.

Lucas leaned forward, his eyes hooded and dark. His cuffs clinked. "I know what you're thinking," he whispered, the cadence of his voice dropping into a sing-song pitch. "You're wondering when we killed our first human."

The journalist froze. "We?"

"Of course." A slow, deliberate smile crept across Lucas's face. "It's no fun playing all by yourself."

Dean sets the book down and closes it. He puts a hand on it, pushing it away, as though he can somehow physically hold it back.

His phone rings, but he doesn't answer. A minute later a text pops up on the screen from Sam.

_Harvelle wants to put out a warrant for Cas's arrest. Anna's lobbying to search for him as a "missing person." Not sure which way it will go. Try not to freak out. _

Then Dean stands up and grabs his keys.

…

It snowed a little in the night, just enough to keep the ground crunchy into the early afternoon. Dean stands on the doorstep and presses the doorbell.

"Go away," a man shouts from inside the house. "No comment!"

"It's Dean!" he calls. "Dean Winchester!"

A minute or so later, the door cracks open. Chuck is standing behind it in a ratty old blue robe and worn-through slippers. "Dean," he says, audibly relieved. "I thought you were another reporter. What is it?"

"The feds," Dean says. "Two bodies were found at Lake Madeleine, and they think it's Cas."

"I know," Chuck sighs. "They came by last night."

"I think I know what theory they're working on." Dean swallows and sucks in a breath of cold air. "I'm reading Lucas's biography and he basically says that… Cas has multiple personalities."

Chuck gazes at him, his eyes darting along Dean's face.

"What do you think?" Dean asks. "What did you tell them?"

"Dean, I'm a doctor, you know I can't –" Chuck tugs his robe tight around himself. "I can't talk to you about Castiel's mental health. It's confidential."

Dean exhales in frustration and scuffs his shoe on the doormat.

"What do _you_ think?" Chuck asks.

"I think it's bullshit," Dean retorts. "If Cas had more than one personality, I'd know about it. I think it's an easy way for Lucas to sidestep all the folks who would step up to the plate for Cas and testify that he's a fucking good person. I think it's just a psychopath taking advantage of tabloid shit-shovelers who have seen _Fight Club_ too many times, is what I think!"

Chuck chews his lip. "Then why did you come to me?"

Dean scratches his eyebrow and tries to think of an answer.

"I will tell you what I told the agents." Chuck wraps his arms around himself. "I told them that as a psychiatrist, I cannot disclose things Castiel and I have spoken about unless he is a danger to himself or others." He looks at Dean evenly, certainly. "In my professional opinion, Castiel is not a danger to himself or others."

Dean takes a moment to absorb this information.

He swallows and nods quickly. "You're a good man, Chuck."

Then he steps off of Chuck Shirley's doorstep and returns to his car, so that he can drive home to the house he's been avoiding and the quiche waiting for him in the fridge.

….

Dean spends a good portion of the evening just going through his things, checking to see what's been taken. It's strange to see all of his possessions so slightly thumbed over, everything just millimeters to the right or left of where it was before. He wonders if they read through his old journals and newspaper clippings, if they analyzed him by the prescription bottles in his cabinet, if they catalogued the contents of his nightstand.

He kinda wants to bleach it all, now.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs and looks up toward Castiel's room. He puts his hand on the newel post, but doesn't go up.

He eats the quiche. It's pretty good. Jody can make better.

He sits in silence.

He dodges the reporters and gets back in his car, mumbling _no comment no comment no comment_, and he drives back to Bobby's house where there are people and noises and Sams to ward off the flock of vultures.

…..

That night, it begins to rain. A steady freezing downpour, the kind that should begin with a clap of thunder but instead starts with fat droplets splattering down over naked trees and green bushes, skittering down the windows and sluicing into the dirt, coming down faster and thicker and heavier until it's just buckets of water veining across the glass and a dull drumbeat on the roof, above Dean's head, dark gray noise lulling him to sleep.

Beyond Dean's window, a shadow bobs unevenly. Dean doesn't see it. He's finally asleep, his exhausted body finally overpowering his agitated mind.

The shadow bobs higher, taking human shape. A hand slides under the edge of the unlatched windowpane and pries it up, pulling the window up as high as it can go. The silhouette climbs inside the room with the silence and agility that only shadows can achieve; it slides the window closed with dripping fingertips.

The figure approaches the bed, wrapped in darkness, water pooling at its feet. It leans over Dean's sleeping form. It bends down, and carefully, silently

clamps its frozen hand over Dean's mouth.

Dean's eyes snap open.

Urgent blue eyes stare back at him.

"Dean," Cas says, his voice low and tight. "I can explain."

Dean's heart stops beating.

His lungs suck flat.

And then all at once, every nerve and muscle and vein rushes with tingling life and incredible force, a flood of sheer sensation because it's fucking _Cas!_ Dean pushes upward, struggling to sit up.

"Wait!" Cas forces him down again, keeping him pinned with his arm. "Before you wake the others – I don't know what you've been told, but – I can explain everything, if you only let me. I know it's difficult to believe, but I can prove it to you…" Cas's eyes are wide, whites gleaming in the darkness. His hair is plastered to his pale skin, droplets of rain still trickling down his neck. "Dean, I'm innocent."

Dean sits up and yanks Cas's hand off of his mouth. "I know that," he snaps. "Now why the _fuck_ didn't you call?!"

Cas stares at him.

"Two days, and you can't pick up a goddamn phone?" Dean demands. "Shoot me a text? Fuck, you could have sent me a fucking _telegram_ for all I care –"

"You –" Cas's voice catches in his throat, and he inhales quickly. "You know that I'm innocent?"

Dean gazes back into his eyes, trapped in the urgency there, the weight behind the words. "Of course."

Cas looks at Dean, and slowly sags into the bed. He sits on the edge, his cold hand clenched tight on Dean's arm, wordless.

Then, without warning, he pushes forward and kisses Dean desperately. His lips are cold and clammy but Dean drags him in tighter, pulls him in bodily, trembling hot kisses and clumsy hungry bodies and it's not until he peels Cas out of his soaked-through coat that he realizes they're both shaking.

"I thought you were dead," Dean croaks, grasping Cas's face with both his hands. "I thought you were murdered…"

"I'm sorry," Cas rasps, and a warmth trickles from the corner of his cheek along Dean's thumb. "I didn't know if you'd be – with the police, tracking me, and I didn't want to risk – I came as fast as I could – I had to explain, in person I knew I could explain –"

"You can't do that to me," Dean growls, even as his voice cracks and his eyes well up. "You can't do that to me, Cas." He means it as an order but it comes out as a plea. "Don't you do that…"

"I know." Cas rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder and takes a shuddering breath. "I know…" His words break off and he fists his hands tight in Dean's shirt.

Dean wraps his arms around him and squeezes tightly, too tight to breathe, and Cas quietly shakes in his arms and buries his face in his neck. Dean closes his eyes and lets the tears trickle out and listens to the drumbeat on the roof.

….

Outside of Bobby's house, a deputy sits in an unmarked car. She drops her binoculars and grabs her radio handset.

"Station," she says, "I have a visual on the suspect."


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: _SO THIS IS REALLY LATE AGAIN AND I'M SORRY. _

_The bad news is, everything in this story is taking about ten times longer to write than I anticipated and ends up being about seventeen million times the wordcount I estimated. The good news is, more fic for you! Yaaaaaaaaaay. _

_Okay, so at least PRETEND to be enthusiastic, guys. _

_Thank you for all your awesomesauce reviews. They really do make me happy. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is... uh... this plate of biscuits I just made. Everyone likes biscuits, right? *points* YOU get a biscuit! And YOU get a biscuit! You're ALL GETTING BISCUITS! _

_Enjoy the chapter. _

* * *

"When I got off the plane in Detroit," Castiel says, "I took an airport shuttle to the hospital immediately. But when I arrived at the hospital, they didn't have any record of Daphne. I turned on my phone, and I had messages from the FBI, and from you. I had this… this terrible feeling in my stomach, and I looked in my phone. Under Daphne's name, there was a number with our area code." Cas's jaw tightens. "It was then that I knew. Somehow I _knew_ what had happened. I knew soon they would send someone after me; I threw my phone in a water fountain and ran. I admit it – I ran. I caught a bus to Lansing, and…" His mouth turns up at the corner, a slight rueful smile. "Half-formed ideas of disguises and rustic cabins clouded my thoughts. But when the initial panic subsided, I knew I had to come back to you. I gave you my word that I was coming back." His hand skitters along Dean's arm. His are fingertips still slightly damp and they drag lightly on Dean's dry skin, soft warm friction.

Dean can't stop looking at his face, drinking it in, studying it in the darkness. "How did you know I was here?" he asks. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I didn't, at first," Cas admits. "But I took a taxi from the bus station and I was coming into town when I saw you in the Impala, driving the other way… I followed you. I hid in the scrapyard. I saw the light come on upstairs…" He presses his lips to Dean's right cheek, and murmurs, "I saw you come to the window…"

Dean slides his fingers up through Cas's wet hair and shivers. "You're freezing. You wanna take a shower or something?"

"No." Cas's nose bumps against his ear, his stomach flat against Dean's. "I just want to get warm."

…..

Deputy Hannah McMurtie sits in her unmarked vehicle in the scrapyard behind Sheriff Singer's house, her heart pounding and her hand still on her radio mic.

She picked this spot for the line of sight – she's hidden, but she can see everything. The front, the back, everything but the far side of the house. She picked it so she could see everything. She didn't expect to see anything.

He's here.

The station crackles back, telling her to wait and keep her post. Reinforcement is coming. Don't approach the suspect.

Hannah stares at the bedroom window, a dark black hole. She watched him heave up onto the awning of the porch, crawl up the slippery roof, and wrench open the window. It's still raining and Hannah thinks, _How long did I watch him?_

She hasn't slept, the past couple of days. Hasn't left her car in five hours. She stares in the black open window and thinks about her daughter's nursery, a mobile over the crib, and imagines an open window–

Tires crunch on gravel.

Hannah starts. She grabs her binoculars and peers through the rain.

It's Sheriff Singer's car, her own car, not the county patrol vehicle. The front door opens and Singer steps out, slams the car door behind her. She's still in uniform, but there's no way she's responding to Hannah's alert – she radioed the station not two minutes ago. It takes at least fifteen to get out here from the station, even with a siren. Singer walks toward the front door, drenched in the pouring rain.

She doesn't know.

Hannah scrambles for her cell phone.

….

Jody arrives home around 11 p.m. after a long, unsatisfying day of sting operations. It's pouring rain and freezing, of course, and she gets out of the car with a few choice curses. As she opens the door her phone starts to buzz, and Jody checks the number.

It's one of her deputies, McMurtie.

Jody rolls her eyes. She unzips her coat, shakes out her hair and answers it. "What is it?"

"Sheriff." McMurtie's voice trembles uncertainly. "Sheriff, I have a visual on Castiel Goodwin. He's here."

Jody's hand clenches tight on the phone.

She forces her voice even and firm. "You know I'm not a part of that investigation, McMurtie. Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need me to call backup?"

"No, you don't understand," McMurtie says. "Sheriff, he's in your house. In the second floor bedroom."

Jody freezes.

She lowers the cellphone from her ear

and stares up the long, dark staircase

to the guest bedroom.

"Sheriff?" McMurtie asks, tinny and small. "Sheriff?"

…..

"They found two bodies," Dean tells him. "By Lake Madeleine. Someone planted a hair on one, one of your hairs."

Cas nods. "I think I know who," he says. "When I was in jail, Lucas came to visit me every other weekend. He told me about his life. For the last year I was inside, he told me he was dating a woman named Betsy. I never met her, but he said she had black hair... I think that woman I met in the bar – Meg – I think she's Betsy. She's the one."

"Yes!" Dean grabs Cas's shoulder. "Cas, that would explain – I thought it was her, from the get-go. She got to your phone. She's writing Lucas's biography, she _knew_ who you were in the bar. She's killing for him and they're setting you up!" He sits up and reaches toward the nightstand, where he's stowed a few of his personal effects. "We gotta call Harvelle–"

Cas grabs Dean's wrist. "Wait."

Dean meets his eyes, round and large. "Why?"

"Don't tell them yet. Don't tell them I'm here. They'll arrest me." Cas gazes back at him, and there's a dead set to his voice, a determined edge on his jaw. "I can't go back to prison, Dean. I refuse to go back."

And there's something in the way he says it, and the hollowness in his eyes, and Dean knows exactly what he means.

_A body. Dark hair. Facedown. Unconscious. Vomit._

"Cas," Dean whispers. "Promise me you won't."

"I can't go back," Cas whispers. "I can't."

"I won't let them." Dean leans forward and closes his eyes, presses his forehead against Cas's. "I swear to you, Cas. I'm – I'm here to stop this from happening again. Okay? You don't know how many nights I've laid up wishing I could, could go back somehow and do things over again. How many times I've prayed I could just turn back time and change everything." He swallows, and his chest pulls tight. "Well, I've been given a second chance now, Cas. I'm rewriting history. And I swear on everything I am and believe and have…." He grabs Cas's chilly hands and squeezes them between his own, painfully tight, and looks straight into his eyes and says, "_I will not fail you again_."

Cas looks straight back at him for a long endless moment, his face wrenched tight with anxiety.

"Do you care about me?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Cas breathes.

Dean squeezes his hands even harder. "Do you trust me?"

Cas's mouth twists in on itself, his eyes bright, and he nods wordlessly.

"Then we got this." The creakiness of Dean's voice betrays the firmness of his words. "You and me, Cas. You and me." He pulls Cas in and kisses him softly, softly, so softly it hurts.

Then he lingers, and he can feel Cas's breath on his lips, skin still brushed against skin, and he waits.

"Please," Cas whispers. "Please, can we just have tonight?"

Dean exhales, the weight of the past 48 hours aching in his bones. Cas is here and real and alive and as soon as he picks up that phone, they're going to be swept up in the cyclone, the whirlwind of interrogation and scrutiny and arguments and ticking clocks.

Harvelle can wait.

Dean slips his hands up to cup Cas's face, and nods. Then he presses forward and kisses him slow and deep – a kiss to weather the storm.

…..

Jody stands at the foot of the stairs. In the darkness, the green wallpaper is a deep shade of blue, and the shadows converge at the top of the landing, where the hallway retreats into the silent recesses of the old house. Her hand hovers over the light switch, and then she drops her hand to her side.

She steps onto the stair, her heart pounding under her throat, threatening to burst out of her chest her like a mallet through the skin of a drum.

….

Cas pushes Dean down on the bed and presses kisses to his neck, his hands dragging down Dean's abdomen. "I'm sorry," he pants. "I'm sorry I didn't call."

Dean struggles to catch his breath and groans, digging his fingers into Cas's back. He's hot and cold all at once and desperate for more, bowled over by a flood of need he hadn't realized he'd dammed up.

…..

Deputy McMurtie watches as the SWAT vans roll into the driveway, and the operatives file out silently. They surround the exits of the house and climb onto the roof, swarming around the home with military precision.

She wonders if Sheriff Singer thought to wake her husband and warn him.

…..

Jody climbs the stairs slowly, every footstep seeming to echo and creak. When she gets to the top, she stops and stands in the silence to listen.

She can hear a soft voice, coming from the guest bedroom. She walks close to the wall, dread prickling at the nape of her neck, and her vision tunneling focused and sharp as her eyes adjust to the dark.

It's Dean's voice, low and urgent.

"Cas," he says. "Cas…"

Jody closes her hand over the doorknob, and noiselessly opens the door. It takes her a moment to understand what she sees.

Castiel.

Dean and Castiel.

Together.

The two men entangled in the dark don't notice her, not at first. It's not until Dean opens his eyes and freezes, and Castiel freezes with him.

Jody puts her hand numbly to her holster, and hears her own voice saying, "Get up."

Both stay motionless, perfectly rigid. Dean stares at her, his eyes shining hard and accusing. "Jody," he says. "Jody, don't do this."

She draws her gun, and levels it at Castiel. "Castiel Goodwin. Put your hands above your head."

Castiel slowly gets off of Dean, and raises his hands above his head.

Dean's nostrils flare, his neck and cheeks flushed. "Jody –"

"Don't Jody me," she snaps, more harshly than she expected to. "There's a warrant out for his arrest and he's in my house. I am well within my rights."

Castiel stands with his hands clasped over his head, naked and silent. He lowers his eyes to the floor.

"You're not a part of this investigation," Dean says, getting up from the bed. "You don't know how little evidence they're going on –"

"No!" Jody shouts. "That's not how this works, Dean! The FBI wants Castiel, and I'm taking him down to the station. End of story!"

Dean looks at her, and before she can blink,

he reaches into the nightstand drawer and draws his handgun.

He cocks it and levels her with a steely glare. "Then you're gonna have to go through me."

Things are spiraling out of control.

"Put the gun down, Dean," Jody orders. "You and I both know you're not going to shoot me."

"If you try to shoot Cas, I will," Dean counters. "You busted in here, cornered me while I'm naked and shoved a gun in my face, so yeah. There's a lot of things I could do right now that I might regret later, but that'd be later, and this is now."

Jody grits her teeth. "I'm doing my job."

"Your job?" Dean demands, frowning and blinking quickly. "What happened to 'I'm not your boss, I'm your family'? Huh?"

"I don't get to break the law. Not even for family." Jody keeps her finger on the trigger, keeps her hand steady. "If our positions were reversed, you'd be saying the exact same thing."

"Our positions _were_ reversed!" Dean retorts. "I was on this fucking carousel the last go-round, remember? I dragged Cas out of his house with my own two hands and it was the worst mistake I ever made!"

"Was it?" Jody demands. "Why is it so difficult for you to consider that maybe you made the _right call_ all those years ago?"

Dean flinches at her words. Castiel remains silently staring at his own feet.

"_Why?_" Jody repeats. "You had evidence then. You _believed_ it was him. I remember! I was there!"

"I was _wrong_," Dean snarls. "It's right in front of your face, Jody. Cas is standing here in your house because he _came back_. He was in the wind and he came back on his own!"

Jody feels herself slipping, and she tightens her grip on the gun. "You're so afraid to fight for yourself, Dean. Ever since Castiel was exonerated, you won't defend a single thing you did as sheriff. Well, guess what? Some of the things you did _made fucking sense_, Dean!"

Dean shifts his hands, and he levels the barrel with Jody's heart. He tries to keep up the snarl, but it quivers into a grimace. "Please," he says. "Please, Jody, don't."

Jody slides her index finger down the smooth curve of the trigger –

and the window blasts open in a burst of stinging glass, and the room explodes with smoke.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N:_ This chapter is kind of short, but since you all were so outraged by my cliffhanger last time, I thought you'd prefer a quick update over a later, longer one. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that WHEN THIS STORY IS DONE, I WILL WRITE A NICE FLUFFY ONE-SHOT ABOUT DEAN AND CASTIEL PICKING OUT DECORATIVE THROW RUGS OR SOMETHING AND NOTHING WILL HURT AND EVERYTHING WILL BE BEAUTIFUL. _

_Dean will advocate for something like - I don't know, an actual bearskin for the Men of Letters bunker. The kind with the bear head still attached. And then Cas will be all "but bears are perfectly nice and you wouldn't put a dead human in front of the fireplace, also I've decided I like this carpet depicting a colorful jubilant child," and then Dean will be like "THAT IS A DORA THE EXPLORER BATHMAT. NO." Then they compromise on a tasteful green geometric thing and they take it home and have sexytimes on it. The End. _

_So. Yeah. Something like that will come if you review!*_

_*Since writing this A/N, I now have decided that I should never, ever, ever write a throw-rug themed story. My bad. _

_Enjoy the chapter. _

* * *

**Twenty Minutes Earlier**

"I am not leaving this office until you give me an answer," Anna Lawrence says quietly, standing with one hand planted on Harvelle's desk. "Are you or aren't you going to put a warrant out on Mr. Goodwin?"

Harvelle rubs her temple and glowers. "As I've told you several times over the past three hours," she growls, "that remains to be determined."

Sam sighs and sinks lower into his uncomfortable plastic chair. It's a little too small and he feels a little gangly in it.

"That's not good enough," Anna says, each word a clipped precise blow. "This is not a matter of discretion, it is a matter of life and death. There will be death threats. He will never be safe, anywhere in this country, for as long as he lives. I can't believe you would treat a man's life so cavalierly! If it were your brother, or your partner Garth–"

"Enough!" Harvelle announces, shoving back her chair and standing up. "Enough!"

Sam sits up.

Anna shifts her weight and crosses her arms, and a savage glint comes to her dark brown eyes. She's the prettiest lawyer Sam's met in a long time, and the quietest. It wasn't until she sunk her teeth into Harvelle that he realized her silence wasn't shyness – it was predatory instinct.

"I can't make promises," Harvelle says. "You know very well, Lawrence, you _know_ I can't promise anything. It's not just Goodwin's life at stake here." She scoops a folder from her desk and flashes a photograph at Anna. "This is Jenny Cleese. She disappeared on her last day of kindergarten. She was discovered when a hiker's dog started chewing on her shoulder." She slips another photo from the file. "Olivia Hartwell, the second victim in the first string of Lake Madeleine murders. If she hadn't been murdered, she'd be turning thirteen next month. She'd be going to her first school dance." Harvelle tosses the photos on her desk and yanks out an entire sheaf from the file. "Then there's Jacob Smith, Elizabeth Johnson, Benjamin Foley, Jesse Schwartz, Kenny Whidbey, Gabriela Chavez. And now Camden Rodebaugh." Harvelle's eyes glitter as she juts her jaw forward, and she holds the folder out to Anna. "So you know what, Lawrence? If you want me to 'go easy' on Castiel, why don't you go ask Mr. Chavez for permission first? Why don't you show up on his doorstep two days after Christmas and explain to him that the man who left a pubic hair stuck to his dismembered daughter's leg is walking free because you didn't want to damage his _reputation_." She shoves the folder into Anna's hands, and her upper lip curls. "Be my fucking guest."

Anna grips the folder tight, but she doesn't flinch from Harvelle's gaze.

Sam stands up and straightens his jacket. "With all due respect, Agent Harvelle," he says, "I think you'd find it equally difficult to explain to Mr. Chavez that you allowed his daughter's killer to escape justice because it was easier to file a warrant with Castiel Goodwin's name on it. I don't think Mr. Chavez would be impressed by how remarkably quickly you were able to make an arrest when another dead kindergartener turns up in your backyard."

Harvelle narrows her eyes at him, but she doesn't say a word.

She's wavering. He can feel it. He _knows_ this feeling, when your opponent is about to compromise…

Suddenly Garth strides into the room, more determined and focused than Sam has ever seen him. "Agent Harvelle," he says, "the results are in."

Harvelle sucks in a breath and buttons her blazer. "Excuse me," she tells Anna and Sam. "I've got an investigation to run." She walks briskly out of the office and follows Garth down the hall.

Sam stares down the hall after her, a strange tingling pricking at the back of his neck. He glances at Anna. "You don't think…."

Anna grabs her jacket from the back of her chair. "I don't think," she says. "I know. They found him."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Shit. What do we do? I don't – I've never–"

"We do what we do best." Anna fishes out her keys and wields them in her fist, and then shoots Sam a wide toothy grin. "C'mon, country boy. Let's chase some ambulances."

….

"I need three units with lights, no sirens," Garth directs. "Harvelle's going to take the lead on the SWAT unit. Let's move it, people!"

The station erupts in a flurry of activity. Deputies strapping on equipment, making calls, tromping into vans and squad cars. Garth mans the radio, keeping the lines of communication clear, the conductor of the bulletproof orchestra. Agent Harvelle hops in the front seat of the SWAT van and tries not to let the adrenaline get the best of her.

The squad cars clear the way with lights, and they arrive at the Singer residence in record time. Harvelle looks in the rearview mirror and smugly notes that the lawyers are nowhere to be seen.

...

Sam clutches the car door and reflexively stomps his foot where a brake pedal should be. Anna Lawrence is driving like a bat out of hell, and he is currently afraid for his life.

"I wish I had a siren!" Anna growls. "I can't believe we lost them!" She careens around a corner so hard her brakes squeal.

It's just as Sam is about to suggest a quick re-evaluation of their strategy that _Sweet Cherry Pie_ blasts through the vehicle at top volume.

"That's my phone." Anna digs it out of her pocket and tosses it at Sam. "Could you see who it is?"

"Someone named 'Amanda Rice'?" he informs her.

Anna's eyes widen, and she blows through a stop sign. "Well, answer it then! Don't you know who that is?!"

...

Harvelle is feeling that unique sense of triumphant dread that always accompanies a manhunt. He's here, at Singer's place. He climbed in the back window. She _knew_ he would come back, that he would make the stupid choice and return to the city, to his family. Every gamble she's made so far is paying off now.

It's not until they arrive at the scene that she loses her first hand.

"We've got a line of sight into the bedroom," a deputy reports to her from behind a television monitor in the back of the van. "Visibility is low, but… There are two persons in the room. I think the one on the right is him."

"He's still in the room?" Harvelle asks, surprised. McMurtie's been watching the exits and he hadn't left, but she would've thought he'd at least retreat to the basement.

"Yes." The deputy pauses, clears his throat, and points to the unfocused dark shapes on the screen. "I know it's not real obvious, but I've taken a lot of these videos, and. Well. You're not gonna believe this, but he uh, he appears to be engaged in. Uh. Sexual activity."

Harvelle clenches her fist and swears under her breath.

The deputy glances over at her. "You're not as shocked as I expected."

"We've known about this, I just thought –" She cuts herself off and shakes her head. "Nevermind. Let's get coverage on the roof, the window, and the exits."

The operation begins in earnest.

The SWAT operatives crawl across the rooftop silently, any sound of their footsteps muffled by the pouring rain. Others take their posts by the front and back doors, and under the second-story window. They take position –

And someone else enters the bedroom. A short woman with cropped black hair and a handgun.

"It's Sheriff Singer," the deputy says in a panicked voice. "It's the sheriff."

"Shit," Harvelle mutters, her eyes glued to the screen. She presses the mic button. "Standby, all teams. We have complications."

The shapes in the shadows of the bedroom move, elongating into male figures. They move closer to the window. The rain weakens into a drizzle, and the line of sight is clear now – it's Castiel and Dean, naked, being taken into custody by Sheriff Singer.

Then Dean reaches behind him and draws a gun on the sheriff.

Harvelle's throat closes tight.

She presses the mic button. "Accomplice is armed," she says. "Let's make things a little less complicated."

Thirty seconds later, the Bravo team kicks in the back door and runs up the stairs while the Charlie team knocks in the front door and secures the entryway. The Alpha team drops down from the roof and kicks through the second-story window, splintering through the glass, tossing in a tear gas grenade and bursting into the room. An operative grabs Sheriff Singer and hauls her from the room. Two SWAT operatives tackle Winchester and disarm him, while Goodwin is pinned to the floor and cuffed. Harvelle waits for the gas to clear and enters the room in a Kevlar vest, flipping the light switch on as she walks in.

It's strange. She'd known this moment would come, she had planned meticulously for it, and yet… Harvelle is disappointed. Somehow she _wanted _to trust Dean, and she had just started to believe that he was dealing straight with her. The dishonesty stings more than it should.

Everyone makes mistakes.

"You –" Dean stops to choke and cough, his eyes red and streaming. "You fuckers. Where's my fucking lawyer?"

"On his way." Harvelle looks him up and down. "Where are your clothes?"

Dean's split lip curls up in a sneer. "Harvelle, you–" She can see the insult rolling forward under his tongue, balling up in his mouth.

And then, strangely, his face drops, and he sags in the grasp of the two men holding him, sinking to his knees. "Fuck," he groans, his mouth pulling into a wince. "Fuck, Harvelle, I was going –" He sucks in a wheezing breath, and his voice cracks. "I was going to call you…"

Harvelle crosses her arms. "Why didn't you?"

Dean rolls his eyes upward to hers. He's on his knees, naked, bruised, wet-faced, broken.

"We knew about your relationship with Castiel," Harvelle says coolly. "We inspected your place for evidence from top to bottom, after all. Let's just say, if carpets could talk…"

His eyelids flutter and he looks toward the ceiling, as a flush of humiliation reddens his neck and cheeks.

Harvelle shrugs. "Still, I thought there was a chance you'd call."

"But you didn't bank on it," Dean retorts hoarsely. "So you stationed a man outside to watch me sleep."

Agent Harvelle feels her irritation building – more than the usual annoyance, a more personal anger crackling under the skin. "And a good thing I did," she snaps, "since you drew a bead on Sheriff Singer."

Dean looks away, and his nostrils flare.

Then she turns to the man who is slumped silently on his knees, arms cuffed behind his back. "Castiel," Harvelle says, "you've been awfully quiet."

"Cas." Dean shakes his head. "Cas, don't say anything."

Castiel doesn't say anything. His head hangs down so low that his chin touches his chest.

"Castiel Goodwin, you are under arrest for the murder of Gabriela Chavez," she says. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?

Castiel doesn't respond.

"Goodwin. I'm talking to you." Harvelle motions to the operatives on either side of him, and they haul him to his feet. She lifts his chin up, raising his face to the light. "Do you understand your rights?"

He stares at her with an empty, hollow gaze, his eyes red and watery and… dark. His pupils are strangely dilated, black and round.

The hairs on Harvelle's arms stand up. It's just how the book described it.

Dean struggles against the men holding him, struggling toward Castiel. "He's in shock!" he cries out. "Leave him alone! He needs a doctor!"

"Excuse me! Lawyers coming through!" comes a shout from the stairway, heavy footsteps pounding up in unison. Sam Winchester and Anna Lawrence barge into the room, bristling with indignation. Then their gazes land on Dean and Castiel.

"Jesus!" Sam exclaims. "What is this, Guantanamo?"

Harvelle rolls her eyes. "I found them like this. You can ask Jody Singer."

"Well then for Christ's sake, let them put some clothes on!" Lawrence snaps. "Neither of them appears to be resisting arrest."

"That's because Dean's been disarmed," Harvelle says sharply, "and Castiel's catatonic."

Sam's eyes snap to Castiel. Castiel remains silently staring into space.

"No," Dean says in low voice. "No. No."

"Is he..." The look of dread on Sam's face is unmistakable. "Is he in shock?" _  
_

"Maybe," Harvelle answers. "It could also be a dissociative state, developed over time as a defense mechanism –"

"No!" Dean insists, his voice rising in outrage. He turns toward Sam, frustrated and desperate. "No, that is _not _what's happening! They've been reading her book, Meg is a fucking liar, you and I both know that!"

Lawrence steps forward and lowers her voice to that quiet timbre that commands every ounce of your attention. "Agent Harvelle. You have two men in custody, and Castiel is nonresponsive. He may need medical attention. Why don't you take him downstairs, call an EMT out here, and we can talk things out."

"Or," Harvelle suggests, "why don't I take him down to the station, and a doctor can see him there?"

"Because if you step out that front door, you're stepping into the newsroom," Lawrence says. "And trust me, you don't want to be holding press conferences just yet."

Something about the smug way she says it grates on Harvelle's nerves. "Oh really?" she retorts. "You've been hounding me nonstop about this arrest for the last three hours, Lawrence. You've exhausted all your options. You expect me to believe you're holding a card up your sleeve?"

Lawrence's lips curl upward in a soft smile. "Yes, in fact. I do." She holds up her phone. "I called your M.E. earlier today, and she just got back to me as we drove over here. It seems you 'forgot' to mention that the latest victim had a sliver of a fingernail embedded in his skull."

Harvelle's heart stutters. She forces her expression into a confused frown.

"It's going to be at least eight hours before the DNA results come back." Anna rolls her shoulders. "And if I were you, I wouldn't take the gamble."

Another roll of the die, another spin of the roulette wheel. You win some, you lose some. Harvelle looks from Lawrence, to Sam, to Castiel, to Dean.

Dean looks up at her with bitter accusation, but beneath it –

Hope.

The damn fool still has hope.

She folds.

"Alright," Harvelle says. "Let's take it downstairs. You've got eight hours."


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: _Oh my God, you guys. I worked so hard on this for you. I know it's late, but - this is the hugest chapter ever, and I need you to appreciate the sheer volume that I am delivering to you. There was just no way to write any less and bring it to the places I needed it to go. A few items of business: _

_1) I try to answer all direct questions that are left for me in the comments, but if you leave a guest comment, I can't reply to you! A guest commenter asked me about the schedule by which I update. My ideal answer: once a week. My realistic answer: sometimes once a week, sometimes once ever two weeks. It depends on the chapter and how busy I am. _

_2) I am sorry for causing you so much distress and pain! Hahaha just kidding, your pain only makes me stronger. _

_3) Some of you have asked for a little sum-up of what's been going on and who's who, which is a totally fair request and one I intended to fulfill. But then I remembered how when they do recaps on the show, it always would give away what the episode was really about. By pointing out what's important to remember, I may be spoiling you somewhat for the future. Nonetheless, I will do a quick summary with as few giveaways as possible! Those who wish to avoid it may scroll ahead. _

_**Summary**: Seven years ago, six small children disappeared from different areas of the county, and their bodies turned up around Lake Madeleine. They had their ribs broken, their eyeballs gouged out, and their fingers and teeth removed. Dean was the lead deputy detective for the sheriff back then, and his deputy dad had died only the year before; he had a lot to prove. When the sixth child appeared in Castiel Goodwin's lakehouse, CSI showed that all the other kids had been murdered/stored in the bathroom, and there was no forced entry. Dean arrested Cas. Cas spent six years in prison, and then another child showed up dead, with Lucas Goodwin's saliva on his wrist. Lucas confessed to all the murders, and Cas was exonerated; his lawyer was Anna Lawrence. Dean resigned, and Jody stepped in as sheriff. (She's been working on a drug ring sting since then, one run primarily by Balthazar Travers.) Cas forgave Dean, and they spent a lovely raucous two days together. Three months later Cas tried to commit suicide because he was so isolated, and Dean asked him to come live with him. They embarked on a wonderful bromantic love tale. Meanwhile, Lucas was in prison, writing his biography with the charming Margaret "Meg" Masters. Meg ran into Castiel at a bar in October and tried to seduce him; he tried to have sex with her, but couldn't follow through. It was right around this time that Camden Rodebaugh was murdered. Then in late November, Lucas received a rambling strange letter, and he sent a letter back to Castiel saying, "I give you my leave." It's right around this time that Gabriela Chavez was murdered. On Christmas morning, Cas called his ex-wife Daphne and was told by her mother that she was deathly ill in Michigan. He caught a flight that evening to Detroit, but when he got to the hospital, there was no record of Daphne. The number he called was really to a prepaid phone, bought in his home area code. Both murdered children were discovered in the woods near lake Madeleine in the next two days - first Gabriela, then Camden. There was one of Cas's pubic hairs on Gabriela's leg, and some khaki fibers and a fingernail on Camden's body. Federal agents Harvelle and Garth came to investigate the murders, and Castiel is currently their primary suspect. _

_This entire time, there have been signs that Cas might suffer from some kind of dissociative or "multiple personality" disorder. Lucas claims that due to their father's abuse, Cas periodically "blanks" and does horrible things. He claims that he and Cas murdered the original five children together. Cas's therapist, Chuck, refuses to comment. Anna Lawrence, his old lawyer, flew in from New Mexico to defend him. They are all currently waiting on the DNA test of the fingernail from Camden's body before the investigation advances any further. _

_..._

_Okay. That should do it. Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

A sleek black Camaro idles outside of a dingy green apartment complex; exhaust billows into the rainy winter night in a cloud of white steam.

"Well, this is my stop," Meg says, a lazy smirk pulling across her face. She unbuckles her seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."

The man at the wheel turns off the engine and slides his hand over her knee. His eyes are a little too dark, a little too restless. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Meg drags her teeth across her bottom lip, and slowly shakes her head.

His hand tightens on her knee.

"Careful." Meg's voice is easy and dangerous, like the blade of a knife gliding across the skin of your thumb. "Damage the merchandise, and I'll make you pay for it."

The man looks her in the eye, and warily retracts his hand.

Meg grins. "Good boy."

She leaves the man in the black Camaro and walks through the rain back to her apartment door, fumbling for a moment with her keys. She's a little drunker than she realized, and it takes a little longer than she expected. When she gets inside, she peels off her coat and unzips her boots, kicks them off with a gratified sigh, wriggles out of her skinny jeans and throws them across the couch.

Meg shakes out her damp hair and shivers. Bare legs and winter rain are a bad combination. She sidles over to her liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of halfway decent scotch; something with a little heat in it. She watches the golden liquid as she pours it into a glass, watches it as it trickles beautifully down the side and glistens in the bottom of the tumbler, and takes a deep breath of the oaky peat aroma.

The night is still young.

She takes a slow, deep drink of the scotch, and lets the soothing warmth burn all the way into her toes.

…..

In the upstairs bedroom of the Singer house, Bobby sits on the edge of the bed with his wife. It's been one of the more stressful nights in his recent memory. He was just woken out of a dead sleep by a SWAT team busting the bedroom door off its hinges, shouted at and interrogated, informed that a suspected murderer and friend snuck into his home while he snored, that the closest thing he has to a son held his wife at gunpoint, and now he's fallen down some dark rabbit hole and been mistaken for a level head.

He puts his arm around Jody and holds her tight. "It's okay," Bobby says. "He isn't… he wasn't thinking. If he was thinking straight, he would've realized what he was doing. "

"I don't even know who he is anymore," Jody says, voice cracking. "How long has he been lying to us? Do you think he's been keeping Castiel, all this time –"

"No." Bobby shakes his head, willing himself to believe his own words. "No, they said Cas actually flew to Michigan. And I think this other stuff… with him and Castiel… I think it was going on for awhile before all this craziness started…"

Her arms tighten around his back, and she buries her face in his shoulder. "I hate this," she sobs.

"I know." Bobby squeezes her tight. "But they're only here until morning, it'll blow over soon –"

"No. Not just tonight." Her voice is muffled in his ratty old t-shirt, and her shoulders shake. "I hate all of this. I hate having to turn over a friend. I hate working my ass off on shitty drug cases while my family gets torn apart. I hate this job, Bobby."

Bobby opens his mouth to speak, and realizes he has nothing comforting to say. He feels weak in his bones. Old. Tired.

Jody's phone beeps.

Jody snuffles and digs it out of her pocket. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sighs as she reads it. "The boys I had stationed outside Hanneville," she tells him. "They made a bust on Balthazar Travers."

Bobby gives a half-hearted smile. "Well that's something, isn't it? You've been after him for months."

Jody stares at her phone with red eyes. "It's something," she says. "Just not the something we need."

….

Sam stands in the front hallway as he sends a text to Amelia. _Castiel is back in town,_ he types. _Not arrested yet, but feds are here. Can't talk about it right now – things are delicate. Stay at home. I'll keep you updated._

Then he pockets his phone and enters the study, the room where his attention should be right now.

Dean is sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up and his back resting against the leg of the desk. Thanks to Sam he's wearing sweats and a t-shirt now, but his eyes are still swollen and red from the tear gas, and he's staring off into space with a certain preoccupied slackness in his jaw. Two men in full SWAT gear stand silently at either side of the room, ready for him to try anything.

Sam walks over and lowers himself down onto the floor next to Dean with a grunt.

Now that's he's close enough, he can hear Dean humming something under his breath. It's a familiar tune, but it takes Sam a minute to place it – _O Come O Come Emmanuel_.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Christmas carols?"

Dean doesn't look at him, but says quietly, "It's a song about waiting."

Sam nods.

Dean takes a deep breath, and adds, "It's about believing."

It's like a piece of soft, fragile fabric ripping in Sam's chest, the way it tears at him – how desperately Dean clings to his conviction, and how badly he wants to be vindicated. He wishes he could tell Dean that it will all work out alright, or that Cas is innocent, or even that _he_ believes Cas is innocent. But instead, he has to settle for all he can honestly give.

"I prayed for you," Sam tells him. "Last night."

Dean's eyes flicker to his.

"I know you don't believe in God, and neither does Cas," Sam says, "and half the time, I don't either, but… just in case. Just in case someone is listening." Sam feels a stinging in the back of his nose. "Just in case somebody up there cares, I prayed for you."

Dean gazes back at him, and swallows. "Thank you."

Sam can't take it anymore, and he looks away. "I know why didn't you call Harvelle," he says hoarsely. "But why didn't you call _me?_"

"I _wanted _to," Dean answers, a pleading note in his voice. "Sam, I did, I just – I was selfish, I thought I had more time –" He scrubs the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Fuck, Sam, I – I pulled a gun on _Jody_, what the fuck was I thinking –"

"I don't know!" Sam snaps. "What _were_ you thinking, Dean? That you were just going to hop out the window and pull a Butch fucking Cassidy? That you and Cas were just going to gas up at the local Chevron and drive to Rio? That – that I wouldn't try to find you?"

Dean presses his hand harder into his eye. "I don't know."

"You _know_ the only way we win this is by playing by the rules," he says. "You, of all people, know how important that's going to be if this goes to trial."

"Sam, if this goes to trial, we've already lost!" Dean insists desperately. "If Cas has to spend even one night in a jail cell, we fucking lost!" He points toward the window, where the curtains are drawn shut but the occasionally red or blue beam bleeds through. "They'll eat him up out there. It won't matter if he's acquitted. He'll be the O.J., the Michael Jackson, he'll be Jon Benet Ramsey's dad, and nothing and no one will ever be able to clear his name! They'll hound him for the rest of his life, everywhere he goes!"

"So what if they follow him the rest of his life? At least he'll _have_ a life_,_" Sam shoots back.

Something in Dean's face changes. He goes from hotly desperate to stone cold in an instant, and he narrows his puffy eyes at Sam. "You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Sam demands.

"Cas isn't going to live like that." Dean looks him dead in the eyes. "He'll kill himself first."

The words building in Sam's mouth falter and die.

It's true.

"I know you think we can protect him," Dean continues. "He'd have a family, and people who cared about him. Maybe that would be enough. But all it would take would be for him to decide that his life isn't worth living, and he'd do it. He'd follow through. He'd try to spare us, maybe run away first if it came down to that." Dean turns his face away and draws his knees in tighter, crosses his arms over them. "I don't intend to let it come down to that."

Sam exhales, and nods.

They sit in silence for awhile. The guards on either end of the room never move an inch.

"Dean." Sam's tongue feels thick and clumsy, inarticulate. "Be truthful with me. Do you honestly, truly think he's innocent, or… are you just dug in too deep to admit you might be wrong?"

Dean doesn't answer. He keeps his face turned away from Sam.

"Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam." Dean balls up tighter, away from him. "Just shut the fuck up."

"Dean, I –"

"That you would even _ask_ me that, after all this." His voice is stretched thin with anger, taut to the point of breaking. "You can go to hell."

"Dean, he's sitting catatonic in our kitchen," Sam argues, "and you can't even admit the possibility –"

"Shut the fuck up," Dean whispers, body clenched tight. "Shut the fuck up, Sammy, please."

It's the _please_ that gets him.

This isn't a case. This isn't a client who won't face the facts. This isn't a detective who refuses to acknowledge the realities of the situation. This is his brother, clinging to his last shred of hope, and Sam is sitting here trying to _break_ him.

"Okay," Sam whispers, blinking quickly. "Okay, I'll – I'll go."

He stands up and leaves Dean in the study, and prepares himself for a long night of waiting in silence.

…..

In the kitchen, the EMT packs up her medical kit. "His vital signs are fine," she informs Harvelle. "Got some swelling around the eyes from the tear gas, but I gave him a rinse. His pupils look dilated, but they're responsive. Whatever's going on with him, it's almost certainly psychological."

Harvelle chews her thumbnail. "So we don't need to bring him in to a hospital."

The EMT shakes her head. "You should be fine keeping him here."

Harvelle nods slowly. "Okay. Well, I'd like you to stay, if that's alright, in case he passes out or something." She jerks her head toward the back door. "There's coffee out in the van if you want some."

Then Harvelle approaches the kitchen table, where the man of the hour is currently sitting.

He sits perfectly straight, with his hands cuffed behind his chair. There are guards on either side of him, but he hasn't so much as twitched for the last hour. His dark black hair is stringy and plastered flat to his head, and his eyes are circled with puffy red bags, but he looks perfectly content.

It's Castiel Goodwin, in the flesh. The first time Harvelle's ever met him in person, and it sends chills up her spine.

Anna Lawrence sits eagle-eyed next to him, hands clasped on the table.

"Castiel," Harvelle says. "Can you hear me?"

Castiel remains motionless.

Anna sighs. "Can we please be done with this farce? Clearly my client isn't talking tonight, and we've got at least five more hours until we get any substantive news –"

Castiel lowers his head, and coughs.

Anna and Harvelle both freeze. The two guards glance at each other and then back down to Castiel.

He coughs again, harder, and then dissolves into a fit of coughing, until he's choking and gasping for breath, and then he whips his head up. Wide-eyed and nakedly terrified, he yanks against his chair. "What's going on?" he demands. "Who are you? Let me go!"

"Castiel, look at me, it's okay, you're not under arrest –" Anna puts her hands to his shoulders, then looks sharply to the guards. "Can we get these cuffs off of him, please?"

Castiel bucks harder against the back of the chair, breathing heavily and eyes darting with panic. "Let me _go!_" he shouts.

…..

In the study, a muffled shout echoes from the other room. "Let me _go!"_

The guards on either side of the room shift their grips on their weapons.

Dean stands up. "Cas," he breathes.

….

After ten minutes of scuffling and soothing, Castiel sits uncuffed at the table, his chest still visibly rising and falling heavily. He stares at Harvelle with fear and suspicion.

"Castiel," she says, "do you remember anything that happened over the last hour?"

He swallows, and looks at Anna.

She nods.

"I remember… Sheriff Singer," he says slowly. "She – she came into the bedroom, and told me to get up, and then… the room went black, and…. I woke up here."

It's strange, how much pity Harvelle feels for him. She's come across the great pretenders before, the ones who think that somehow being locked up in a mental institution for the rest of your life is better than a jail, who try and fake insanity. But this one – this one is for real. There's just no other way to explain the evidence scattered across the county. He's not going to get the insanity defense, because his type of "insanity" doesn't fit the bill. He's going to die in prison for crimes he doesn't remember committing.

She really does pity him.

So maybe that's why Harvelle leans forward, and tries to explain as well as she can. "Castiel, this has happened to you before, hasn't it? Blackouts, where you don't remember what happened?"

"He's not going to answer that," Anna cuts in. Castiel glances at her warily.

"We have the prison medical records." Harvelle looks him right in the eye. "When you were first incarcerated, you had some trouble, didn't you? And I'm guessing you've had these episodes going back into your childhood, starting with all the times with your father."

Castiel leans forward urgently. "Whatever Lucas has been telling you, it's a lie," he says. "Our father never whipped us or beat us. I will submit to a medical exam, and you'll see – I don't have any scars –"

"We're aware that his 'biography' is highly embellished," Harvelle admits, "and in serious need of some fact-checking. But not all abuse leaves physical scars, Castiel." She raises her eyebrows seriously. "If I asked for a psychological exam, I think any psychiatrist could testify to just how many scars you really have."

Castiel sits back in his chair, and swallows.

"You have lots of blank periods in your childhood that you don't remember. Periods where you had no idea what you were doing, or who you were. And you continue to have blank periods as an adult," Harvelle continues softly. "You used to take nightly drives, which I'm betting you don't remember either, and you suffer from insomnia. You're a sleepwalker too, I'd put money on it. Children were murdered, so you were put in jail; the murders stopped. Now you're out of jail and more children are turning up dead. We found _your_ hair on one of their bodies. We just found a sliver of someone's fingernail on another; we've sent it away for DNA testing, and the results are coming back in a few hours." Harvelle doesn't blink, doesn't look away from him for a second, but holds him in a tightly locked gaze. "So what I'm asking you, Castiel, is this: can you look me in the eye right now and swear to me that _you know for certain_ that that fingernail is not yours?"

Castiel gazes back at her with red, puffy eyes, and the corner of his mouth crumples inward.

He can't.

"I'm sorry, Castiel is not going to answer that," Anna interrupts. "And I'd like to remind you that you haven't put him under arrest because there's a significant possibility that that fingernail belongs to the real killer. Now, if you don't have any other questions for him, I'd like it if he could get some sleep."

Harvelle scoots back her chair and stands up, never breaking eye contact with Castiel. "Nine children," she says. "Nine small children are dead. Don't let there be a tenth."

She walks out of the room, and leaves Castiel a moment to think about his options.

….

It's after 2 a.m. when a knock sounds on the study door. Dean snorts awake and stumbles to his feet as the guard nearest the door pulls it open. Anna and Castiel walk in, escorted by another two guards.

"Cas!" Dean exclaims, his heart pounding. "Cas, you're okay! I heard you yelling – shit, I was worried about you!"

Castiel nods slowly, and then looks to Anna and the guards. "Can we have a minute alone?" he asks. "Since I'm not under arrest yet… You could stand outside doors and windows, if you need to, but. I'd just like a few minutes alone."

Anna smiles quietly. "Of course." Then she glares fiercely at the four guards in the room. "He's not under arrest," she growls. "You can man the exits and be satisfied with that."

The guards radio in to Harvelle, and after a few minutes of negotiation, Dean and Castiel are left in the study by themselves. The few lamps that are on shine yellow and soft on the maroon patterned wallpaper, leaving the rest of the room wrapped in intimate shades of burgundy darkness.

Dean isn't under any illusions that they're not being recorded, but he doesn't care. He throws his arms around Cas and hugs him tight, and then grabs him by his shoulders. "Cas, I was so fucking worried about you you have no fucking idea you seriously don't," he babbles. The adrenaline is tingling in his scalp, his fingertips, his toes. "You went into shock and then they were going to arrest you and Sam and Anna marched in like these knights in fucking armor and kicked their fucking asses and–" He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "But that doesn't matter, what matters is we need to strategize, okay? There's a fuckton of evidence in your favor, starting with that prepaid goddamn phone –"

"Dean." Cas looks at him with large, heavy eyes, and he reaches up slides his hand over Dean's. "Listen to me for a moment."

Dean snaps his mouth shuts and nods.

Cas leads him over to the couch by the hand and sits down, and Dean sits down next to him. Cas's skin looks so pale, so sallow in the lamplight. His hair has dried strangely, flat and stringy, and his eyes are still a little swollen. The redness makes the blue of his irises look unnaturally bright. "I've been talking to Anna for awhile," he says, "and deciding what I'm going to do."

For some reason, dread prickles at the back of Dean's neck. "I know," he says. "That's what I'm trying to talk to you about –"

"I've come to a decision." Cas's face is calm and set, but his hands tremble in Dean's. "If the DNA test says that the fingernail is mine, I'm going to turn myself in."

Dean stares.

"No," he utters, "no. Cas. It's a set-up. If the fingernail is yours, that's just Lucas being one step ahead of us, that's _all_. Cas, you _know_ that you're innocent –"

"No." Cas's eyes grow brighter, and his mouth twists downward. "I don't, Dean."

Dean blinks at him. "What?"

"I have… stretches of time that I can't remember," Cas admits. "I've had them since I was a child. I thought that I had recovered since I started seeing Chuck, but I think that it's possible that I…." His words catch, and he sucks in a breath. "That I'm responsible…"

"Cas, don't you dare." Dean grips his hands tight and fights off the squeezing in his lungs, the stinging in his eyes. "Cas, it can't be you. There are so many loose ends. You _called_ Daphne, remember? And somebody answered that phone, someone who said she was Daphne's mother –"

"Did I?" Cas's adam's apple bobs. "Or was it just a delusion? An imaginary voice on the line?"

"Why would you imagine that?" Dean demands. "Why would you trick_ yourself_ into going to Michigan, Cas?"

Cas just looks at him, resignation hanging heavy on his face, and says, "Maybe I wanted to be caught."

Dean's heart stops cold.

The letter.

_ saw the black Side of me was now caught and others would not suffer from my hand_

He wanted someone to catch him -

he wanted -

"No," Dean says, his voice uneven in his own ears. "No no no, it's Lucas, it has to be."

Cas gazes at him with empty defeat. "Why would Lucas do it? Why would he frame me, Dean?"

Dean doesn't have an answer.

He closes his mouth and swallows against the coppery slick of nausea gathering in the back of his throat. "Because he's crazy," he tries. "Because – he's bored. Because a million and two other reasons – Cas, he's a psychopath, some of the stuff he does is going to be irrational. There's so much more to consider, Cas, if we can just talk through this –"

Cas's eyes well, shiny and full, and he looks away from Dean, toward the curtained window. He can't meet his eyes. "I know you're trying to be my advocate," he says, "and I appreciate how hard you've fought for me. But that's not what I need right now, Dean."

"Then what do you need?"

Cas closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. His hands squeeze tight on Dean's, and his voice cracks and twists painfully on the words. "I just need my best friend."

Everything whole inside of Dean crumbles into tiny pieces. He drags Cas in tightly and holds him close, can't stop himself from clutching too hard, can't stop the tears rolling down his face, can't stop the ache in his chest so sharp it hurts to breathe.

"I'm scared," Cas croaks. "Dean, I'm so scared."

"Me too, Cas," Dean whispers hoarsely. "I'm fucking terrified."

"I've got to do the right thing." Cas's tears are hot against his neck, his fingers grasping at the back of Dean's shoulders. "But I don't know if I'm strong enough…"

"This isn't the right thing. You are not a killer, Cas." Dean squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. "_You are not a killer_. No matter what evidence comes in, no matter what issues you might have, nobody will ever change my mind about that. Not even you. You got that?"

Cas just buries his face in Dean's shoulder and doesn't say a word.

They hold each other in the yellow lamplight of the study, until the silence slowly swallows them whole.

…

Harvelle sits on the edge of the kitchen table, chewing on her bottom lip and tapping her heel on the linoleum. She crosses her arms over her chest and shivers.

"Scuze me, pardon me." Garth steps past the guards in the hallway and walks into the kitchen with a broad smile. "You called, Agent?"

"Thank God!" Harvelle jumps up and grabs her file folder. "I swear, I can't even think straight without you. I could really use a sounding board right now." She splays the documents on the table. "No matter how I slice it, something isn't adding up…"

Garth approaches the table and thumbs through the file. "What seems to be the problem?" he asks. "Looks like Goodwin is our man. No alibi, DNA evidence…"

"For now." Harvelle purses her lips. "There's a fingernail we're waiting on, so we'll see where that falls, but even without that… Garth, if this were any other case, I'd have him in supermax by now, but everything about this situation is _odd_. The psycho letter to Lucas with no fingerprints; the call to a prepaid phone." She shakes her head. "I'm willing to buy his flight to Michigan and subsequent return as the work of a split personality, but why would he buy a prepaid phone and call _himself_? Why would he wipe his own fingerprints off a deluded, incriminating letter? It doesn't make sense, Garth, dissociative identity or no."

"There are always going to be loose ends," Garth reminds her. "No case is ever perfectly tidy. Besides, what other explanation is there?"

Harvelle rubs her neck. "You know that Winchester's betting the farm on Margaret Masters. And I don't trust her… She was squirrelly when we talked to her, and that book reads like a love letter. You were there in the office – Winchester said another body would turn up if she were the killer, and here we are."

Garth shrugs. "There are loose ends to that theory, too. Meg Masters never even met Cas or Lucas until last year. Rice is _certain_ that whoever killed those kids almost a decade ago had a hand in killing Gabriela and Camden. How do you explain that?"

She sighs. "I don't know. I don't know. Maybe she's just a phenomenal copycat."

Garth rests his hands on the table and bumps his shoulder against Harvelle's. "No matter who we peg, there are inconsistencies. We can't wrap this up in a tidy bow. We just have to make a call we can live with." He looks her in the eye. "Because it's a call we're going to have to do our damnedest to defend."

Harvelle lowers her head, and looks at the photos of the children who were murdered.

"If the fingernail comes back as Goodwin's…" She places her fingertips on Camden Rodebaugh's chin.

Garth watches her, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"I'll call it." She straightens up, puts a hand to the small of her back and rubs her eyes. "I'll arrest him."

Garth claps a hand to her shoulder and nods. "Okay."

…..

The next few hours are spent in the quiet, in the stillness, in the dark.

Bobby and Jody, lying awake in the master bedroom.

Sam and Anna, sitting on the stairs with their phones in their hands.

Garth and Harvelle, pacing the kitchen and reviewing every handwritten notation on every file.

Dean and Castiel, slumped side by side on the study couch.

SWAT agents at every doorway, window, and possible point of entry.

Deputies in parked patrol cars, unable to tear their eyes away from the house.

News teams fidgeting behind yellow tape, angling for a better shot.

The moon is hidden behind a dark cloud, and the stars have gone out, and the sky is black and cold and endless and time has begun to pass like syrup through a straw, miserly and slow and inexorable.

Then Harvelle's phone rings, and everyone in the house hears it.

Dean and Cas sit up and look at each other. Cas swallows and takes Dean's hand.

"It could be anybody," Dean says.

Cas leans forward until their lips are nearly touching, and hesitates. Then he plunges into a kiss, a long kiss, the kind of kiss that lingers between the doorway at the end of a train car, the kind of kiss that makes the world slow down and and your heart speed up, the kiss that pauses for breath at the end of the moment but the lips stay touching, waiting, hoping, praying for another minute more.

_Give the doomed man a farewell kiss._

"Cas," Dean whispers, "I –"

The study door opens, and Harvelle strides in with Garth, Anna, Sam, and a bevy of SWAT guards in tow. "The M.E. called me," she announces, "and they've analyzed the DNA sample from Camden Rodebaugh's skull."

Dean is completely numb all over, and everything seems to be happening through a fisheye lens, distorted and warped. He looks down and sees his white knuckles laced with Castiel's. He can't feel them.

"And according to Ms. Rice…" Harvelle takes a deep breath, and looks Cas straight in the eye. "It is _not_ a match to Castiel Goodwin's DNA."

All of the air leaves Dean's lungs. He looks to Cas.

Castiel stares at her unblinking, completely white.

Dean is dimly aware of the sound of Sam and Anna's voices, making sounds of celebration.

"In fact, it was not a match to anyone in our records," Harvelle continues, "but we do know it is a female. At this juncture, I'm not going to arrest Mr. Goodwin, though you are forbidden from leaving the area and you will be under constant surveillance until an arrest is made. I'm sending deputies to go pick Ms. Masters and acquire a DNA sample."

Dean somehow stands up, and somehow drags Cas with him, and someone pounds him on the back, and all he can do is stare at Cas and whisper, "We made it. We made it," over and over again.

Cas is just as dazed, unaware of the wetness glistening down his cheeks, and he pushes his hand up to Dean's face and says, "You saved me."

Dean smiles weakly, and he manages to say, "I owed you that much."

"It's not over yet," Anna reminds them. "But it won't be long now." She throws her arms around them, and even as she smiles her eyes are shiny and bright. "It won't be long."

….

Meg Masters finishes the last of her scotch, and licks the last drips out of her glass. The record skips in the record player; it's been skipping for awhile now, but she doesn't care.

She stands up from her sofa and sways a bit, steadying herself on the end table and teetering forward. She laughs. Time for bed. She pulls her tank top over her head and stumbles toward the bathroom. The knob doesn't want to work right, but after a few false starts, she manages to get inside.

Meg admires herself in the mirror. She does have a wonderful body; if only that meant anything these days. She groans and clumsily paws at the faucet. When she can't get the cold and hot to mix right, she gives up on washing her face and turns around to lift the toilet seat –

There, in the tub. The curtain is halfway back and there's something white in the bottom of the tub. She leans forward and squints – it looks like… gravel? She reaches out and scoops some up in her hand, and brings it up to her face.

She looks at the rocks closely, and then….

Her eyes widen, and she drops her hand, and she scrambles backward onto the freezing bathroom tile.

They're teeth.

Hundreds of little white baby teeth.

She screams and screams and screams.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: _So, the 4th of July really threw a wrench in the works as far as timely publishing. BUT I have a new chapter for you so maybe you won't be too mad? For those of you who are not Americans, the 4th of July is our Independence Day, and we celebrate by shooting fireworks and blowing things up and eating red meat cooked over an open fire and AMERICA and FREEDOM and EAAAAAGGGLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEES. _

_Sorry. I spilled a little patriotism on ya there. _

_I need to take this moment to acknowledge that you guys are reviewing like** champions.** I took a gander yesterday and saw that on this story that has 24 chapters, I have 915 reviews?! Like, that is an AMAZING number, and I thank all of you so much for commenting on my chapters. You guys are wonderful and you make the experience of writing this fic wonderful. **  
**_

_Anyway, enough jibber-jabber. Time for the chapter! Enjoy! _

* * *

In the next fifteen minutes, Harvelle and Garth and their entire retinue clear out of the Singer household, cutting a trail through the swath of reporters and riding away in silent patrol cars. The barricades are left up for the convenience of the Singers; a thoughtful deputy staples clingwrap over the broken window in the upstairs bedroom. In the meantime, Anna pulls out her phone and leaves the study, presumably to make some very important phone calls, leaving Dean, Sam and Cas to recoup.

"Okay, okay, so what happens next?" Dean asks anxiously, rubbing his hands together. "Sammy, you and I – we'll head down to the M.E., see what we can suss out. If they didn't tell us about this fingernail, there could be stacks of other evidence we haven't seen hide or hair of. Anna, you and Cas head down to the station, sit in on Meg's interrogation, see if you can poke holes in her story –"

"Dean." Sam claps his hands on Dean's shoulders. "It's six in the morning. You need some sleep."

"I need some coffee," Dean corrects. "And I'm also starving. We'll swing by a Jack-in-the-Box. You want anything, Cas?"

Cas, still white as a sheet, shakes his head.

"That reminds me," he continues, "Cas needs a shower. And a shave. I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe grunge can be his new thing. What's the M.E.'s name? She's a chick, right? God, I'm hungry."

"Excuse me," Cas says in a strained voice. "I think I need to go vomit." He stumbles over to the wastebasket next to Bobby's desk, picks it up, and proceeds to heave his guts out.

"Cas!" Dean rushes over and grabs Cas by the elbow, holds him up and helps him to the sofa. "Get him some water!"

Just at that moment, Anna walks in with a full glass of tap water and a box of crackers. "Right on schedule," she says, handing the items to Dean. She glances him up and down. "Don't worry, you'll hit this point too once the adrenaline wears off."

Dean glares and snatches the crackers from her and sits down beside Cas. "I'm fine," he says. "I just need some coffee and about seven bacon cheeseburgers."

"No," Cas groans into the wastebasket. "Seven is too many. That's disgusting, Dean."

"Quiet," Dean orders. "The excitement has clearly scrambled your eggs. You don't know what you're saying." He thrusts the glass of water at Cas. "Hydrate."

"You both need rest," Sam insists, shoving his hands into his pockets. "They're going to hold Meg for 72 hours, and probably do all the story-poking necessary to rip her alibis to pieces. Go home, take a few hours off."

"And what are you going to do?" Dean demands. "You just gonna go home and play Settlers With Katanas for two days?"

"First of all, it's Settlers of Catan," Sam retorts, "and second of all, Amelia's probably wondering what the hell's been going on for the past eight hours, so yeah, I'm gonna go home."

Anna shoots him a sideways look. "Wife?"

"Girlfriend," he sighs.

Dean pushes some crackers at Cas. "Eat up," he says. "Feel better. We gotta roll."

"_Dean_." Sam steps in close and narrows his eyes.

"Sam," Dean says amiably.

Sam just stares him down.

Dean's adam's apple bobs, but his gaze doesn't waver. "Sam, I'm not going to stay."

Sam doesn't let up. "You can sleep in the den. We'll get some blankets."

"We can't stay here." Dean's face grows tight, and he glances toward the hallway. "I can't sleep – here."

With that glance, toward the hallway, toward the stairs, toward the master bedroom, the interlocking pieces slide together and Sam realizes the real reason for Dean's anxiousness.

"You're gonna have to face her sometime," he says.

"I know." Dean wipes a hand across his mouth. "Just not tonight."

Sam nods. "Maybe you should go home."

Dean furrows his brow and stares at him openmouthed. "That's where all the reporters are!" he protests. "They'll be camped out on the lawn like a bunch of fucking vultures –"

"I'd like to go home."

Sam, Dean, and Anna look over to Castiel.

Cas sets down the wastebasket, and takes a trembling gulp of water. "I'd like to go home," he repeats. "I'd like to sleep in my own bed."

Dean's face falls, and he nods slowly. "Yeah," he says quietly, "yeah, we can do that."

…

The winter morning is still black and dark, and when they pull up to the house in Sam's unobtrusive truck, for just a moment they go unnoticed. Then they park the vehicle, and step out.

The cacophony is deafening.

"Mr. Goodwin!" a woman screams. "Mr. Goodwin!"

"Dean Winchester!" a man bellows over the roar of the crowd. "Mr. Winchester, do you –"

Floodlights beam into the eyes blinding and sharp, watering and painful, and Dean shoulders his way through by sense of memory; he knows this walk, this front gate, this cement path by heart. Sam pushes him forward and shields Castiel's back and shouts into the melee, _no comment, no comment_.

A scrabbling of keys at the front door, and then the party bursts in and slams the door shut behind them.

"Lock all the doors," Sam pants. "Close the blinds, the curtains, everything."

Cas sinks into the sofa as Sam and Dean make the rounds, checking every crack and crevice and entrance. Sam runs upstairs and Dean returns to the couch, puts a hand on Cas's shoulder.

"Just like old times," Cas mutters. "Everyone wants a soundbyte."

The Christmas tree sits dark in the corner of the living room, browning and bare. No one thought to water it. The dead needles lie in clumps on the red felt skirt, scattered across the dark gleaming shell of the new piano; the star has slid from its point, a toppled crown hanging limply on a loose branch.

"Three days," Dean says. "It's only three days since Christmas."

Cas looks up at him with large eyes. "I left all my things in Detroit. I – I just left them, in my suitcase, on the sidewalk."

"It's okay." Dean squeezes his shoulder. "You've got more clothes upstairs. Anything you need, we can buy."

"I left my books." Cas sucks in a couple of quick breaths. "I left Jane Eyre, I didn't finish it yet, and I left – I left some keepsakes of Daphne's that I had been – holding onto –"

"Cas. It's okay." Dean brings his hand to Cas's cheek and slides it under his chin, tilting it up, bringing his eyes back to Dean's. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay from now on."

Cas gazes up at him, a word hesitating unspoken on the edge of his lips.

Footsteps pound down the stairs. "Alright guys, I vetted the upstairs windows and –" Sam stops short and stares at the two of them.

Faster than conscious thought, Dean snatches his hand away. Cas quickly yanks his face away from Dean, his chin tucking into his far shoulder, and Dean realizes his fingertips are still stinging from the friction of Cas's stubble.

Sam's eyes widen, and he puts his hands out. "No, sorry, I didn't mean to – interrupt, or anything."

"No." Dean is speaking to Sam, but he can't look away from Cas. "You're fine."

Cas doesn't say anything. He just inhales quietly and clasps his hands.

"The… upstairs is cleared," Sam continues weakly. "And I think you guys are good for the night, so…. I'm gonna go."

"Okay, thanks," Dean says, tearing himself away from Cas and rubbing his own shoulder. "I'll call you tomorrow, we'll go down to the M.E. together."

Sam nods in the least convincing way and quickly replies, "Yeah. Yeah." He glances between the two of them and then leaves out the front door, greeted by a sunburst of unison camera flashes.

Dean and Cas are left in silence again.

"So," Dean says in a low voice, smiling weakly. "Guess that's our default setting, huh?"

Cas clears his throat and looks down at his thumbs. "I haven't quite adjusted to… the idea. I've always been…." His cheeks color, and his mouth tightens. "I've always had to hide it. It's been… my secret."

The words take a moment to sink in, and Dean blinks in surprise, although he couldn't say why he's surprised at all. Everything he's ever known about Cas and his upbringing and his faith has pointed in the same direction like a blinking neon sign.

But what's truly surprising to Dean is that he opens his mouth and replies, "Me too."

Cas looks up at him and frowns in confusion.

"I didn't know exactly what it was, but I think I've known on a certain level for a long time that I'm not – I'm not – " Dean gestures to himself with his hands, because the words are getting difficult – "I'm not what they all think I am. It's a front. Hell, since I was a kid I knew that and I knew how to hide, how to look tough, look cool, look right but – my dad, I think I always thought my dad could see through the bullshit and he was…" Dean sucks in a deep breath and blinks quickly. "He was disappointed in me…"

Cas smiles bitterly, and takes Dean's hand in his. "Your father sounds a lot like my God."

Dean squeezes his hand and sits down next to him on the sofa. "So we're fucked up," he says. "The both of us."

Cas gazes at him seriously. "Of course," he says. "Otherwise, we never would have found each other."

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then cracks up laughing.

Cas smiles.

"Holy fuck," Dean laughs, "it's true!"

Cas pats Dean's knee and stands up. "Come upstairs," he says. "I'm going to take a shower."

…

When Sam gets home, Amelia is still asleep in bed, balled up with the covers tucked in tight around her shoulders, her loose dark curls spilled across her pillow. The hardwood floor is freezing and Sam shivers as he yanks off his dress shirt, kicks off his pants, and clambers into bed.

Amelia groans and looks at the clock. "Th'fuck, Sam?" she grumbles. "Whas' goin' on?"

Sam tries to keep his teeth from chattering and snuggles up to her, his chest against her back. "Cas is in town. I texted you."

She groans and drags a hand down her face. "Wha?"

"Wake up." Sam slides his cold feet against Amelia's smooth leg.

Amelia yelps and elbows him savagely. "_Christ_! I hate you!" She squirms away from him and turns on him, grabbing the pillow out from under his head and beating him around the head and neck with it. "How's that for _awake_?"

Sam wrestles the pillow from her hands and tackles her, pins her onto the bed with his body and grins in her face. "Worked, didn't it?"

Amelia glares at him savagely, black hair tangled across her face.

"You're really scary-looking sometimes, do you know that?" Sam comments.

Amelia glares harder.

"You're going to knee me in the balls, aren't you?" Sam asks.

She lifts her knee into prime striking position.

"Okay okay okay!" Sam rolls off and flops onto his side of the bed. "Uncle. Uncle."

They both lay there quietly for a moment.

"Did you say something about Cas?" Amelia asks.

"He's back in town. He came back on his own."

"_What?"_

"He snuck into Bobby's house about eight hours ago, and someone spotted him. SWAT team came and busted the place open, Anna and I were trailing behind trying to defuse the bomb –"

"Oh my God."

"We got a tip just in time that there might be DNA evidence that didn't match Cas. We convinced the feds not to arrest him until the results came in, and we spent the last six hours just waiting to hear back."

"Oh my God. It didn't match?"

"No. It's a woman's DNA. They're going to pick up another suspect tonight. They're keeping tabs on Cas but he's a free man."

"So… he might actually…"

"He could be innocent, yeah."

"Dean was right?"

"… It's starting to look that way."

"Oh my God."

Sam looks over at Amelia, and reaches out to push her hair behind her ear. "Thanks for helping me through this whole ordeal. I think… I think it's almost over."

She gazes back at him with intent, dark eyes. "You should've woken me up. I would've waited with you."

"You've got work today," he says.

She closes her eyes. "This is more important, and you know that."

Sam looks at her for a minute, really looks at her. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he can see every almost-invisible freckle across the bridge of her nose, the globes of her eyelids, her long curving eyelashes, the slope of her chin and the soft lines of her forehead, the pale smooth expanse of her skin and the tiny, downy hairs on her cheek.

"You're beautiful," Sam whispers. "You know that, right?"

Her eyes lift open. "What?"

"I don't say it enough." Sam feels urgent somehow, driven and breathless. "I don't tell you enough how much I love you."

He can see the question in her eyes, the worry. "I love you too," she says slowly.

"I just feel – so lucky to have you," he says, "and lately I think… I've been letting you slip through my fingers."

Amelia closes her eyes again. "Sam…"

"We don't have to talk about it right now," Sam says, "I just…. Amelia, I don't want to lose you."

She squeezes her eyes tighter, and she moves her body toward him, nestling into the crook of his arms and sliding her own arms around his neck. "I'm right here," she whispers. "Sam, I'm still here."

"Stay," Sam begs. "Please, stay with me."

Amelia buries her face in his neck. "I am staying."

"How long?"

She doesn't answer.

Sam clutches her tightly, as tightly as he dares.

…

Dean stands in Cas's room and listens to the running water of the shower. The adrenaline has worn off now and he feels considerably less manic, but the exhaustion is starting to seep into his bones. He looks around the sparse room and wonders how much of the former contents of the room are currently catalogued in an FBI evidence locker.

Cas steps out of the bathroom and shucks off his clothes, casting them onto the bed. He looks at Dean expectantly.

"Alright, alright," Dean says, unbuttoning his pants and rolling his eyes. "Buy a girl dinner first, will ya?"

"I'm not sure if I have the energy for sex," Cas remarks dryly, "but I'd like to at least get some light groping in before I lose consciousness."

Dean lazily tugs off his shirt, very deliberately flexing his abdominal muscles as he does so. "Did you brush your teeth?" he asks. "Because you were throwing up earlier and I'd like to avoid vomit breath, if at all possible."

Cas quirks up one eyebrow. "I guess you'll have to find out yourself."

Dean frowns at him. "That's really gross, Cas. Why am I turned on right now?"

"Because I'm naked," Cas reminds him.

Dean jerks his head toward the bathroom. "Get in the shower, smartass."

It's a surprisingly quick shower; they both genuinely need to get clean and they're both genuinely dead tired, so what should be a prolonged steamy Brazzers-style encounter is reduced to mutual soaping and stealing third base.

It's all so new. That's what sends Dean's heartbeat flying past dangerously fast. Everything about this is still so new and exciting and real and _promising_, and if it weren't for the rest of the world he thinks he could be incredibly, deliriously happy for the rest of his life like this.

"Cas." He kisses Cas's neck, presses his lips under his ear. "Thank you."

Cas arches into his touch and pants, "For what?"

"For coming back." His skin is hot, so hot, water rolling down and dripping off his chin. "You didn't have to come back."

Cas kisses him on the mouth, lets their bodies slide together slippery and wet, just enough friction to be painfully close but not enough to push over the edge.

Then Dean grabs him by the hips and yanks him tight, desperate and needy, and they collapse together against the cool ceramic tile, sound dragging out of their guts and through their lungs and echoing into their fingertips.

The water hisses down on them, quiet and relentless.

"I love you," Dean gasps. "I love you."

Cas just looks up at him with large, full eyes, and pants, "Dean…"

"What?" Dean pushes the hair off of his forehead, bends to touch his nose to Cas's. "What is it?"

"I don't know…" Cas's hand closes around his wrist, and he looks at Dean with so much naked longing in his face that it nearly hurts. "I don't know how I can ever deserve you."

Dean closes his eyes, and he chuckles through the ache in his chest, and he says, "Cas. You don't get it."

Cas rubs his thumb against Dean's wrist. "Get what?"

"Ever since I met you, I've been carrying this debt to you, this debt I can never repay." Dean laughs softly against the skin of Cas's cheek. "And for the _first time_ now, for the very first time, I'm starting to feel like if I can just get you through this nightmare, I'll have finally… atoned."

"I forgave you long ago," Cas says quietly.

"I know." Dean kisses him again, slow and soft. "I know."

…

Sam's phone buzzes on his nightstand.

A large hand flops blindly in the direction of the sound. Eventually it hits its target and clumsily grabs the phone. Sam peers out from under the covers and squints at the number; he slides the phone lock and answers. "Hello?"

"Hello," says an automated female voice. "This is a collect call from –" The voice changes in pitch and intonation – "_an inmate at the Sherman County Detention Facility_." It flips smoothly back. "To accept this call, press zero. To refuse this call, hang up."

Sam stares at his phone for a second, and then presses zero.

"This call is from a correctional facility, and is subject to monitoring and recording," the voice continues cheerily. "After the beep, press 1 to accept this policy, or press 2 to refuse and hang up."

Sam presses 1.

The line clicks.

"Hello?" he says.

"Hello, Sam," a familiar voice drawls on the line. "This is Meg Masters. Please don't hang up on me, cuz I've had a _really_ shitty day and I only get the one call."

"How did you get this number?" Sam demands.

"The phonebook. That's right, they have an actual phonebook at the station. I'm as surprised as you are."

"What are you calling me for?"

"Look." She stops and takes a breath, and her voice loses its mocking edge. "I know you don't believe me, but I've been set up by Lucas. And the only one who knows him well enough to know what the fuck is really going on is Castiel. I need to speak with him."

"Then why don't you call him?" Sam growls. "See if he'll give you the time of day after what you've done."

"I haven't _done_ anything," she snaps. "I mean, not when it comes to the important part anyway and – his phone is disconnected. Dean won't pick up either. You're the only one who answered."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"Because if you don't, more little kids are gonna die," Meg says evenly. "And if you do, you've got absolutely nothing to lose. You're holding all the cards right now."

Sam considers, letting the line hang silent.

"Please." Her voice cracks. "Please, bring Cas down to the station. I can explain a few things and I'll… come completely clean. I just need your help."

"I'll think about it," Sam says. He hangs up without further comment.

Then he sits up and starts to make a few more calls.

…..

Jody sits in the interrogation room across the table from Balthazar Travers, and gazes at him straight in the eyes.

"You're in hot water right now," she tells him. "We've got photos of you dealing meth and cocaine on three separate occasions, we've got about a kilo of cocaine that we bought from you, and your car is in our impound lot waiting on a warrant."

Balthazar kicks up his feet on the table and cracks his knuckles. "Now, normally, I would find this news extremely disturbing," he tells her, his British accent bringing a jovial lilt to his words. "Even though I have a terribly large sum of unmarked bills hidden in multiple locations, money bribes seem to be sadly ineffective in this county and I'd be left to wither away in state prison." He leans forward, clasping his hands over his knee, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "But this is the information age, darling, and the currency of the law seems to be coined in words. To bribe you, I need only share the right information at the right moment. I've been sitting on one particular goldmine in preparation for such a day."

Jody narrows her eyes. "What do you know?"

Balthazar purses his lips. "Word on the street is that you have a bit of a Lucas Goodwin problem. He's somehow learned to kill children remotely from jail." He looks at his fingernails and picks them. "I happen to know exactly who he's working with."

Jody swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. "I'm not in charge of that investigation," she says. "You'd have to talk to federal agents about that."

"Oh, I know, sweetheart." Balthazar gives her a deprecating look and makes a shooing gesture. "Go fetch Agents Mulder and Scully and let the grownups talk it over."

Jody stands up, and wishes she didn't care about getting a police brutality charge on her record. "If you feed them a line of bullshit," she says, "we'll throw the book at you."

Balthazar holds up two fingers. "I'm the real deal. Scout's honor."

Jody leaves the interrogation room, and Balthazar smiles.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: _Love you all. So much. So. Exhausted. EVERYONE GETS A PUPPY. EVEN THOSE OF YOU WHO NEVER WANTED PUPPIES. _

_Sorry for the lateness. I know I keep apologizing, and YET I keep being super slow on these chapters. It's the home stretch, folks. I can taste it. Only like seventeen million more words to go. _

_Also, I should mention for my international readers, the FBI stands for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This will be relevant to a joke later. I don't know what the heck they mean by "bureau." _

_P.S. If you review this chapter, you will get AN EXPLODING BOX OF JOY AND HAPPINESS DISTILLED DIRECTLY FROM SAN DIEGO COMICON. I didn't get to go because I'm poor and the universe wants me to cry endlessly as I browse through Tumblr gifs, but it looks particularly glorious this year and we should all be jealous forever and ever. _

* * *

Dean sits in an aluminum chair on the edge of the dock, gazing out over the placid water of Lake Madeleine. The air is crisp and clear and the glassy surface of the lake reflects the sepia brown of the sky. He smiles to himself and takes a sip of his beer.

Then he feels it – a tug on the fishing line. He grabs the pole wedged against his leg and turns the crank, reeling it in, slow and steady. He can tell it's a little one, but he hasn't caught anything today and he'd like to bring it in even if he has to let it go. He cranks the line until the small fish pops out of the water, and he swings his catch onto the dock.

It's a tiny thing, too tiny, small and white. He stares at it, frowns at the little thing wriggling on his hook like a fat pale worm.

It's a small severed finger.

Dean drops the pole in horror and the finger writhes on the dock. The water of Lake Madeleine begins to bubble and boil and swarms of fingers teem to the surface, squirming like maggots, thousands of fingers and eyeballs and now thick ropes of intestine slap onto the dock, crawling, twisting, smacking with a familiar wet meat sound and curling towards him, reeking of hot coppery blood. Dean stumbles backward and chokes for air, trips on the camp chair and falls to the ground. He frantically scrambles backward on the dock, betrayed by his numb legs and slippery hands.

A naked little girl stands next to him, her belly slit like a coin purse and the pink bulging entrails dangle down to her feet. Her skin is mottled ochre-grey with livid purple splotches along her bare legs and arms; dark bruising rings around her neck and the open mouth of her cut throat gapes obscenely. Where her eyes should be, she simply has black ragged gouges dripping dark blood down her cheeks. She stinks of putrid rot, like a dead animal bloated in the sun. She puts her cold stump of a palm onto Dean's shoulder.

Dean stares back, frozen and trapped.

Her lips have split open and peeled back, and she touches her empty black gums together, and she whispers in a wet rancid hiss,

_You saw it_.

Dean wakes up.

He's out of breath and his heart is racing and it takes a moment to remember where he is. He's in Cas's room, sweaty and tangled up in Cas's bedsheets, stifling hot and cramped. Cas is asleep beside him, one arm draped across his own face, the other dangling off the bed.

Dean sits up and wipes his forehead with his arm. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses his hands tight against the mattress.

Even with the curtains shut it's gotten brighter in the room, the afternoon light seeping through the cracks and glowing along the walls. Dean squints at the clock and sees that it's almost noon. He reaches over and shakes Cas's shoulder. "Up and at 'em."

Cas groans and shoves his face into his pillow.

Dean leans over and kisses his shoulder. "C'mon. We got work to do."

"No." Cas grabs either side of his pillow and presses it tightly around his head, muffling his ears. "_Je refuse_."

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up. "Such a drama queen," he remarks. He stretches his arms and cracks his back, yawning widely. "In my day, we got five hours of sleep each night and we _liked_ it."

Cas rolls over and flops onto his back, his face set in an expression of hopeless resignation. "In my day, dinosaurs roamed the earth," he mutters. "And we slept fine."

Dean smiles at him, and the smile widens almost unconsciously, and without thinking he kneels on the bed and bends down and kisses Cas deep and enthusiastically.

When he pulls back, Cas is staring at him, a little breathless.

"Good morning," Dean says softly.

"Good morning," Cas replies. He's still looking at Dean with curious intensity, a troubled wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

_Everything's going to be good again_, Dean wants to say. _I know it. I know it. You don't have to worry anymore_. But he knows that as soon as he says it out loud something horrible will come up and all his good feelings will be shredded up and set on fire and buried in an unmarked grave. Something will happen, one way or another, and he doesn't want to jinx this. He's not going to mess this up.

So instead he just grins a small grin and says, "Good morning," again.

Cas gazes at Dean. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"What? I –" Dean frowns at him. "What made you think that?"

"I heard you wake up." Cas looks straight into his eyes, won't look away. "You gasped."

Dean inhales and shakes his head, and he pulls away from Cas. He gets off the bed and grabs his shirt from the floor, tugging it over his shoulders. "Don't worry about it."

Cas sits up and watches him for a moment, and then slides his feet to the floor and walks to the bathroom.

Dean finds his underwear and pulls it on. He feels relieved when he feels Cas's eyes stop following him, and he's not sure why. It's not like he needs to hide this kind of thing, but he doesn't want Cas to get spooked. He wants Cas to be happy, and to know that Dean is happy and not worried at all and totally confident that everything is –

Dean's foot touches something cool.

He looks down. He's stepping on Cas's pants, in a rumple on the floor, and something is sticking out of the pocket and it's cold. Dean slides it out and looks at it.

It's a large penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle. He pulls open the blade and presses it against his thumb. Shiny and sharp. He closes it again. The handle is iridescent white, well-worn and perfectly fitted to the hand. It's clean, taken care of, a beloved possession.

_You saw it._

Dean looks at the object in his hand and stares at it. "Cas," he calls, "where'd you get this knife?"

He hears Cas's footsteps from the bathroom, hears Cas stop in the doorway. "Oh, that's my old pocketknife," Cas answers. "My father gave it to me."

Dean can't take his eyes off it. "How'd you get it through airport security?"

"It was in my luggage," Cas says.

"I thought you left your luggage behind."

Cas pauses. "I took it out of my bag first. Before I left my things. I didn't know what would happen… I thought I might need it."

Out of all his possessions, he stopped to save this one.

_She says the damage to the ocular cavities is so identical that she believes it was inflicted by not only the same person… but the same person, with the _same knife_._

Dean's stomach drops low and clenches tight, and his head starts to buzz with dizzy white noise.

"Dean," Cas says. "What is it?"

This is it. He's holding it, in his hand. This is the one.

"_Why Cas? He's your brother. I know you don't love him because a worthless piece of shit like you isn't capable of love, but why would you hate him? You walked free for six years because of him."_

_The momentary light in Lucas's eyes shuts off, and his face becomes a cold fixed stare of blank ignorance._

Why frame Cas? It didn't make sense… because Lucas wasn't framing him.

Lucas wasn't framing Cas.

He was toying with the investigators, having fun making the puppets dance to his cryptic clues, but the evidence got there all on its own. Left behind by the killer.

Dean's hand clenches tight around the knife, and he draws a deep, ragged breath.

"Dean?" Cas's voice sounds far away, a thousand years and a hundred lifetimes away. "Dean, are you alright?"

How did Cas hold onto the knife for so long? Dean executed the search warrant on his home himself. He must have kept it hidden somewhere while he was in prison – or maybe Lucas kept it safe for him, kept it somewhere they both knew, and when Cas got out he dug it up and retrieved it, cradled his favorite knife in his hand and slipped it open, cleaned the blade carefully and caressed the cutting edge –

_Think, Dean!_ a stern voice commands in his head. It sounds a little like Dad, or maybe Sam, or both. _Don't be an idiot. Think about what they said to you!_

"_Our doc wants to exhume Kenny Whidbey's body to confirm, but… she says the damage to the ocular cavities is so identical that she believes it was inflicted by not only the same person… but the same person, with the same knife."_

Kenny Whidbey. Kenny was the body that exonerated Cas. Kenny was killed while Cas was in prison. If the damage to Kenny's eyes matches Gabriela Chavez and Camden Rodebaugh, then… it isn't Cas who killed them. It couldn't be Cas, and it couldn't be this knife. The knife is just a horrific coincidence. It's a third party, just like he always believed. It's Meg.

A warm hand touches Dean's arm. "Dean?"

Dean realizes his eyes are squeezed tight, and he opens them. Cas is looking at him with concern and – dread, Dean can see, horrible creeping dread behind his eyes.

"I'm okay," Dean says. "I was just – I remembered the dream I had."

"Dean." Cas's adam's apple bobs. "Is there something I should know?"

Dean gives a forced chuckle and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. "Nah, nah. Just a dream, Cas."

Cas's fingers linger on his arm, and then he walks back to the bathroom.

Dean sighs and sets the knife on Cas's dresser. It's just as he's pulling on his pants that he hears a knock at the front door. He jogs down the stairs and peeks out the window to verify that most of the reporters are, in fact, still camped out on the lawn, but the man standing at his door his not one of them. Dean unlocks the door and throws it open. "What?"

Sam glares at him. "You need to answer your damn phone."

...

"Alright, Travers." Harvelle straddles the chair backwards and then hates herself for the cliché. "You got your audience. What've you got?"

Balthazar narrows his eyes. "Where's Barney Fife?"

"That's Agent Fitzgerald to you, and he's handling other matters right now. Believe it or not, we actually have higher priorities than chit-chatting with some boondocks drug mule." Harvelle flicks her hair out of her face and makes a mental note to grab a bobby pin. "I'll ask again. What have you got?"

Balthazar sinks into his chair and rests his hand on the table. He's got an air of casual luxury about him, a bed-tousled attitude matched by designer clothing labels and a wristwatch worth as much as Harvelle's car. "I've got the answer to all of your questions."

Harvelle smiles tightly. "Fantastic. Who's Lucas's partner?"

"Oh please," he scoffs, snorting and rolling his eyes. "Buy me dinner first before you try to screw me."

Harvelle rotates her jaw. "Have fun in prison." She starts to stand up.

"I know." Balthazar sits forward at the table. "I know who it is, but I'm going to need some assurances in writing before I trade in my chits."

Harvelle eases back into the chair. "Fair enough. We'll drop the trafficking charges and recommend leniency on possession."

Balthazar smirks. "You'll drop _all_ the charges, and you'll get me a plane ticket to Panama."

Harvelle laughs. "That absolutely won't happen."

"Alright. Drop the charges, I'll buy the ticket to Panama, and you won't stop me." He raises an eyebrow. "It's a seller's market, Agent Harvelle."

Harvelle looks at Balthazar for a moment. "How did you get caught, Travers?"

He sighs and thumps back in his seat. "A smart kid. A kid I thought was too smart to be a cop. He'd been lurking in my periphery for months, living on the streets, got beaten once or twice by the Varios Locos and the Gangster Disciples but he kept his head down. Drunk bugger but not a user, I thought I could trust him…"

Harvelle narrows her eyes. "So you sold him a kilo of coke?"

Balthazar cocks his chin and gazes back. "First-timers always buy in. It's an insurance thing, in case they snort it or get picked up. He ran errands for weeks to earn the money."

"Seems a little generous, though," Harvelle says. "An entire kilo."

"I liked him," Balthazar says coolly. "I had a good feeling."

She drums her fingers on the table.

"Here's the deal," she says. "We let the county bring you on possession, ask for ten thousand on bail, and we won't stop you on your way to Panama. Take it or leave it."

He pretends to consider. "In writing," he says.

….

Meg glowers at Garth across the cheap plastic table. "Really?" she asks. "You're going to sit here the whole time?"

Garth smiles. "Sure am!"

She groans and clatters her cuffs against her chair. Her bright red jail uniform brings out the greyness of her skin. Her hair is disheveled and loose, and there are deep purple shadows under her eyes. "Fine," she spits. "Then don't say a fucking word."

Sam eyes her warily.

"You. Bunyan." She jerks her chin at Sam. "You said you would bring me Castiel. Where is he?"

"He's on the other side of the glass. Along with Dean." Sam has his back to the two-way mirror, and the back of his neck prickles. "So say what you have to say, and if he wants to, he'll come out and chat. With Dean."

Meg exhales heavily and glares at the mirror.

Sam clasps his hands. "You said over the phone that you were ready to come clean. Are you prepared to confess to the murders?"

"It's a figure of speech," Meg says, irritated. "What I meant was, I lied. I lied to Castiel and I lied to you and I lied in my book and now someone dumped a bunch of baby teeth in my tub and I've been booked into Sherman County Jail."

Garth and Sam glance at each other. "See, we thought it was interesting that Lucas never took any trophies from his kills," Garth says. "It seems like teeth would be a pretty good souvenir, huh?"

"It certainly does," Sam replies sagely. "Did you know that most of the evidence connecting the first six victims to Castiel's lakehouse was found in and around the bathtub?"

Garth gives Meg an earnest look. "Think hard, ma'am. Are you _sure_ you didn't kill all those kids?"

"Oh my GOD," Meg shouts. "Cut the fucking Columbo routine, you _jackasses_! This is my fucking –" She rattles in her chair, gasps for breath, and glares through the tears welling in her eyes. "This is my fucking _life_ on the line!"

"Then stop wasting my time." Sam crosses his arms. "Speak."

"Lucas gave me exclusive rights to his life story back in April," Meg says through gritted teeth. "In exchange, I dropped off a letter for him."

Sam nods. "It was addressed to the prison, right? To Lucas?"

Meg frowns. "No. Why would he – no, it was to a P.O. Box."

Garth grabs his notepad. "What was the address?"

"Somewhere in Royal City. It was thick. The envelope was sealed, and… I didn't read it." She clenches her teeth again and throws herself against her chair in frustration. "God, I was so stupid… I can't believe I didn't see it coming."

"See what?" Garth asks.

"It was instructions." A lock of her dark curly hair falls into her face. "He was sending instructions to someone. He was setting me up."

Garth and Sam both raise their eyebrows.

"Since April?" Sam asks.

She leans forward and speaks vehemently. "You've read my book and you know what he told me. Everything he did pointed me to Castiel – he practically dared me to investigate, to write, to wrap myself in deeper. I had the biggest story of the century sitting on my harddrive. This was going to be my Pulitzer. By October, I'd written most of my manuscript and I was begging my publisher for more time – I had to see him for myself before I blew him out of the water. I had to _know_."

"So you followed him," Sam suggests.

Meg nods. "I followed him to this bar, and – I introduced myself. I had taken… I had taken some stuff…" Her eyes flicker over to Garth. "Some ecstasy… Anyway, I we drank together and I brought him home."

"Did you have sex with him?" Garth asks.

Meg's eyes fix on the mirror. "No. Sort of. We – I tried to get him started, but it didn't work, and then he tried to take care of me but that didn't work either. We called it a night."

"And why would you do this if you believed he was a killer?" Garth asks.

"She has a fetish," Sam comments.

"No, I lied about that," Meg retorts, "I don't have a fetish, and in fact it was the –" She squeezes her eyes shut and cuts herself off. "Never mind. The point is, Lucas told me Castiel was impotent except for with children. I saw myself as Lois fucking Lane, intrepid reporter, and –" She laughs, wild and unhinged. "Christ, do you know what it's like to have a man like that touch you?"

"No," Sam says coldly. "I don't."

Meg's eyes sharpen. "Lucky you."

"Did you retrieve a pubic hair from Mr. Goodwin at that time?" Garth asks.

"I didn't frame him!" she snaps. "How can you not get that through your thick skull? Lucas is framing _me_. Do you get it?!" She leans forward and bares her teeth, snarling, straining at her leash. "Lucas told me Cas was impotent, so that I would fuck him. He told me he was dangerous, so I would follow him. He told me he was the killer so I would write 90,000 words dedicated to Castiel, and then somehow he put a pubic hair on a body and convinced Cas to run away to the sound of a woman's voice. He dumped teeth in my tub and watched the dominoes fall." Sweat is beading along her forehead, and her hair clings to her skin. "Are you seeing the pattern here? Do you get it?"

Sam nods, because he is seeing it, and he does get it, and the pit of his stomach is already twisting tight before the words are out of her mouth.

"Lucas isn't setting up Castiel with my help," Meg says desperately. "Lucas is framing me framing Castiel."

Turbulent emotions roil inside of Sam, wrestling and writhing in his gut. There is absolutely nothing trustworthy about Margaret Masters, but her story makes a horrible kind of sense. Of course Lucas would toy with the eager journalist, play cat and mouse games with the police just to trap her in a web of her own making. He was equally capable of using his brother to twist the knife, placing him at the center of a public scandal to bring the limelight just a few inches closer to himself. Meg's book was ready to hit the presses and all it needed was a new dust jacket, proclaiming itself to be the sensational ramblings of a true-crime writer willing to do _anything_ to fabricate a story. At the same time, if Meg isn't Lucas's accomplice….

Someone else is.

Meg leans as close to the mirror as she possibly can. "Now _please_, can I speak to Cas?"

Sam clears his throat and adjusts his tie. "Well. Actually. He isn't there."

Meg's head whips back to Sam. "What?"

"I didn't think it would be a good idea for him to come," Sam admits. "He and Dean are down at the medical examiner's office."

Garth looks at Sam and shrugs. "Whoops! Our bad!"

…

Harvelle sits across from Balthazar, and presses the button to start the recording. "This is Agent Ellen Harvelle," she states, "it's December 30th, 2012, and I'm speaking with Balthazar Travers concerning the Lake Madeleine murders." She raises her eyes to Balthazar. "Mr. Travers, do you know who Lucas Goodwin's accomplice is?" She's barely daring to breathe, barely daring to believe that this small-time thug has a workable lead, but it's there. The hope is there.

"I do," Balthazar confirms. "It's a woman, a former prostitute called Candy. I don't know her real name."

In that moment, Harvelle wants nothing more than to reach across the table and snap Balthazar's neck.

"Can you give me more than that?" Harvelle asks in a controlled voice, barely suppressing the rage balling up in her fists and throbbing in her temples.

"Of course. I'll tell you the whole story." Balthazar leans back and kicks his feet up on the table. "A long time ago, before anybody knew who Lucas Goodwin was, he was a frequenter of the Pacific Highway strip. I'd say it was around 1999. I knew him because I drove a cab on the strip – this was before my days of glory, you understand, before I was hired by my organization. All the girls would talk about Lucas because he was young and handsome but he played real rough. The pimps knew him too, but he always paid well in the end, so…" Balthazar shrugs. "Anyhow, there was a junkie called Lenny Jones who was known around the strip because he would do just about anything for heroin. Around this time he started pimping out his daughter for drugs. She couldn't have been more than 13. She was this stick-skinny little thing, flat-chested, long dark black hair and big blue eyes. Tommy Weiss got one look at her and wanted her in his stable; he gave Lenny just enough horse to keep him tweaked and got the girl started on coke, started calling her Candy, made her work the strip. That's when she met Lucas." Balthazar stops for a drink of water, and shakes his head. "I have no clue where he got the money, but Lucas wanted her. He wanted to _buy _her. Tommy said no, but he let her stop working the strip and Lucas was her only customer. She was as good as bought."

"And he's been with her for twelve years?" Harvelle asks incredulously. "You can't ask me to believe that."

Balthazar tisks her. "I'm getting to that. You're interrupting my story." He leans back and resumes his lyrical tone. "Lucas beat the shit out of her on a regular basis, made her cut off her hair and keep it cropped short. She didn't mind, though, because it was security. The devil you know, and all that. She didn't have to blow strangers night after night – she just had to blow the one pervert who kept food on her table. It was the best life she could hope for, minus the visits to the ER. Unfortunately for her, about a year into this arrangement she got knocked up. They hadn't been particularly careful about protection because she hadn't… you know…" He makes circular gestures with his hand. "Come of age. It was clearly Lucas's baby. She wanted to get an abortion but he was adamantly against it, and the compromise was that he got her a little shithole of an apartment in the University District and paid her rent. After the baby was born, Lucas didn't want much to do with her, but he kept on paying. She went back to working the strip under Tommy, and that's where she stayed for the next four years or so."

Harvelle sighs. "So _then_ what happened?"

Balthazar rolls his eyes. "Patience, woman, patience. For some reason, a few years later, Lucas wanted Candy back. He took her off the strip and started up the same old routine. Beat her, fuck her, throw cash in her face. She ate it up – she told all the girls she was getting married. She even slowed down on the coke. Everything was coming up Candy. And then…" Balthazar stops for another drink of water, gulping it down and letting the glass smack loudly on the table. "A year or two later, the bodies start surfacing. Castiel Goodwin was arrested. None of us connected the dots until we saw Lucas's face in the paper, and then none of us were too shocked. After all, with a sick bastard like Lucas for a brother, it was no surprise this Castiel person was strangling toddlers. Lucas dropped out of sight, and Candy was on her own again."

Harvelle rubs her forehead. "Get to the point, Travers."

"Well, I saw Candy regularly on the strip for the next several years," Balthazar continues, "until right before Kenny Whidbey was murdered. She suddenly fell off the map, stopped working the strip, moved out of the University District. Then this dead little boy Kenny turned up, Castiel was exonerated, and Lucas was locked up. And Candy…" Balthazar frowns. "Candy stayed gone. I spotted her one night walking down Pine Street; she had dyed her hair red, and she disappeared as soon as she saw me. Bodies started turning up again a few months later, and they matched the bodies from seven years earlier. Most importantly, when I went to my employer with my concerns…." Balthazar pauses and rolls his tongue in his mouth. "I was told she was untouchable."

Harvelle frowns and sits up. "What does that mean?"

"It means that she's off-limits." Bitterness glitters in his eyes. "Lucas has some kind of monetary arrangement with M, and no one is to perturb or disturb Miss Candy or harm her in any way on pain of M's retribution. Again, I have no fucking clue how he comes up with the money."

"So if she's not working the strip, and you don't know her real name, and you don't know where she is now," Harvelle says, "how the hell are we supposed to find her?"

Balthazar gazes toward the ceiling thoughtfully. "That _is_ a pickle," he remarks. "I suppose you'll have to file a report with some sort of… investigative force, perhaps a bureau or something?"

"I don't have time for bullshit, Travers," Harvelle snaps.

Balthazar's expression becomes more serious. "I can identify her on sight. Find me some mug shots, and I'll find your killer. All you have to do is find her…" He waves toward the exit. "Out there."

Harvelle sighs. "Okay. We'll get you some binders. We're done for now." She stands up, turns off the recorder, and contemplates the unusual man sitting before her.

Balthazar looks up at her expectantly.

"How did you get caught?" she asks again.

The corner of his mouth turns up. "I sold a kilo of coke to an undercover cop."

She pushes her hands into her pockets. "And why did you sell him a kilo of coke?"

Balthazar's eyes turn hollow. "Because," he says, "I suppose I'm tired of reading bad news."

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks away. "It was a risky move. I didn't peg you as the concerned-citizen type."

"It's interesting how all of the victims you found were well-to-do, isn't it?" Balthazar slides his contract from the table and folds it, sticking it in his pocket. "Well-off, I mean. None of the discovered bodies were the bodies of street children, whose disappearance would go unreported, whose corpses would most likely go unidentified." He looks her in the eye, a hard sharp gaze. "I'm not foolish enough to think it's because none of them were killed."

Harvelle meets his gaze, and matches it with her even one. "Would you like to report a missing child, Mr. Travers?"

"I just did," he says. "Her name was Candy."


End file.
